Seasons
by ravenously
Summary: People change like the season, and Steve is the summer. He always thought that Bucky was the spring, all fresh-stepped, rejuvenated energy, full of step and stride. He isn't sure what Bucky is now, isn't sure he's anything. Bucky doesn't remember who he is, doesn't know what he's doing, but there's a name on his lips and images of lazy Brooklyn days cycling through his mind.
1. Summer Part I

**Steve**

**I.**

_When he was small, his mother would claim that if a person were a season, he would be summer. Fiery and hotheaded and full of energy, in full bloom at all times. She told him that he should hold onto that, should thrive in it. A hand would brush through golden hair, and she would whisper that summer was a time for a life, a time for the world to celebrate. Hot and bright, a heavy presence no matter which way to look at it._

_He told her that yes, mama, he will always be the summer, always be the best he could be._

_He didn't mention the fear that he could not be summer if he were so weak, because the summer months were strong and solid, a visceral, physical thing that stuck to the skin of people. How then, could he be summer if he was as memorable as a bag of flour? As strong as a newborn pup who couldn't see?_

_Even when his mother was wilting before his eyes, yellow skin and pallid features, eyes red and rheumy through the sickness, she crooned to him and called him her summer flower, her Sun, her Star, and he let her. And when she died on a sweltering, July day, he realized, tears running down his cheeks, that summer isn't always a good thing. Summer suffocates and engulfs and takes over. Summer commands and takes and takes and takes. It builds, but it also dries. Creates droughts and heat._

_Of everything he had ever seen die, Steve thinks his mother died in the worst way possible. At least in battle it's quick, sudden and violent without the need for weeks and weeks of slow-dragging sickness._

_Except, of course, those deaths that weren't physical, but emotionally, as everything inside someone died._

_Steve was the summer, and he would suffocate and strangle everything he ever knew._

**II.**

The first time Steve wakes up, the sterile fumes and cold white of the hospital creating a dull, almost auditory drone in his subconscious, he blinks open his eyes immediately. He feels a pang of guilt at the momentary thrum of disappointment that courses through his veins at the sight of Sam Wilson sitting next to him, playing music that he doesn't know, doesn't recognize.

It's not that he isn't _thrilledrelievedhappy_ that Sam is here, with Steve, because he is. He feels it deep in his bones, the sheer feeling of company sitting comfortably in the back of his head. Steve Rogers is not used to feeling anything but lonely in this jagged maze of technology and modernness, and such camaraderie is a blessing.

No, he feels a sorrow in his chest because for a moment, before he opened his eyes, he had the insane thought that _he_ would be sitting there _(who else has been there for me?)._ No metal arm glinting in the sunlight, no too-long hair that hides him. No blank eyes that don't recognize him. Just _him_ and that smirk that managed to look both cocky and self-deprecating all in one go.

He chokes back a sob at the thought of a lean, solid figure leaning against the widow, smoke curling upwards and a lazy, slow-drawn smirk on a youthful face. He tries not to feel his soul break apart at the thought of two boys- one frail and weak, weak, weak and the other lanky and strong, strong, strong _(oh, how he was wrong)_- playing with small soldiers behind the apartment buildings, a thrum of longing in each of their souls, one with a wish be somebody, and one with a wish to be a good man someday.

Steve doesn't remember who was who.

"On your left." He says, and Steve has to swallow down another wave of emotions, instead glancing over and smiling at Sam, Sam who has been loyal to a fault and doesn't deserve whatever Hell Steven Rogers has brought to him, like a personal devil. Sam, who doesn't deserve anything that has happened to him, ever. But life doesn't care.

He's still drowsy, though. The nurses must have pumped in enough pain meds to knock out a horse considering he can feel the lazy, curling way his mind is working, half-clouded in a haze of emotions and words, memories and wants. His muscles don't respond correctly, either, a bit more sluggish than usual, so Steve quits attempting to sit up and just lolls his head further so he can see Sam better.

Sam is still looking at him, and Steve realizes this is the first true friend he has made since the ice, someone who trusts him unconditionally and doesn't have an alternate agenda right now, except _help Steve_ and _recover_ and _survive._

He didn't know Sam before war, but Steve feels that something was ripped away from this man, not unlike how his wings were torn from his body by a metal arm _(a red star as vibrant as blood)_. The war always does it, regardless of it's form, and as Steve looks across his hospital-thin mattress and looks Sam in the eye, he sees himself reflected. Sees battle-weary eyes behind a mask of confidence, sees a burning ember that floats deep in Sam's soul and keeps him afloat, alight in this mad and confusing world. An flame that wavers and floats like a candle in the wind. _Lostconfuseduselesssadsadsad._ Sam hides it well, but Steve knows how to look, how to regard his own eyes in the mirror. It's the same look he sees in Natasha sometimes, in Tony and Clint and all of the men and women he has fought beside.

The look that Bucky tried to hide from him behind playful looks and sly smirks, tried to push down with bottles of whiskey (it took more to get him drunk, after Hydra, and the two of them made sure never to say anything, never to bring it up). Eyes that could never quite hide emotion well, or maybe they did. But not to Steve, because Steve has always known how to look at Bucky, know how to read him.

Except now. Now, all he sees in his mind is blank eyes and stiff posture and _who the hell is Bucky?_

"He saved me." His voice is rough and tarnished, like gravel has spun around his throat, and all that floats through his head is the memory of two seventeen year-old kids on the landing outside their apartment, chugging back a bottle of cheap whiskey, amber complimenting the grey-blue of his eyes, the upturned pout of his mouth. His whiskey-rough voice as he murmured, too close, '_we'll be real men soon, Steve.'_ It makes his voice crack, as he continues, "I need to save him."

_He saves me, I save him._ Hydra and pneumonia and asthma and Germany. Endless cycles of saving, of circling. _He's all I have left._ It says something about them, he thinks.

Maybe it's a testament to their fast-grown friendship, or the look of determination in Steve's eyes, but Sam merely nods, the backdrop to whatever music he's playing fading down as it switches to the next song. Sam leans forward in his chair, giving Steve a look he can't decode, but before he can ask, the man says, "I know."

And he does, maybe. After all, he lost Reilly, his wingman, his partner. Curiously, he wonders which is worse. Losing him forever, or getting him back, the way Steve has.

Steve lets Sam hand him a cup of water, drinks it down and feels his sandpaper throat give way just a little, wet his aching body just a small amount. He's reminded of summer droughts.

By now, the haze of drugs and pain has clouded his mind further again, and he just nods, letting his eyes slip closed. Steve is fairly certain he heard a faint sigh below the drone of music, but he's not sure. He feels the pat of a hand on his shoulder before he falls under waves of water, and Steve can only hope he doesn't fall under for seventy years of dreamless slumber again.

**III.**

_He was leaning against the railing of their balcony, flicking ash down to the street. His silhouette was beautiful, strong, but Steve would never say anything, couldn't. 'Hey, how are you doing?' He asked, hesitating, and Bucky turned around, haggard eyes searching, lips turned downwards. His hands were white-knuckled from where they grasped the tarnished metal balcony, breathing ragged from too-many tears._

_ 'I-I couldn't stay. It was…' He trailed off, shaking his head and turning back to look over the balcony, down to the streets of Brooklyn, head bowed. It was the close Steve had ever seen him fracture, except maybe when he had asthma attacks._

_ 'I understand.' Steve said, stepping closer to him and standing beside his tall and shaking form. It was true, he did. His mother had died the summer before, from the same sickness. 'Come on.' And though he was small and tiny, he felt stronger than Bucky in that moment, wrappin a hand around his wrist and pulling him back into the shabby, gritty apartment. Theirs, now. Bucky went, pliant and silent with grief, and Steve just pressed him into the single mattress, and the two of them laid with each other, comforting each other like they always did._

_ They said nothing but the language of comfort, whispered nothing but breaths on the back of each other's necks, and sure, they were too close, pressed too close to be brotherly, they didn't care. 'I won't lose you.' Bucky murmured at the coming of dawn, twisting to stare into Steve's wide blue eyes. 'Ever. Regardless of what happens.'_

_ 'I believe you.' Steve had said, but even then, the seeds of doubt had spread through his skinny limbs, because how could Bucky want you to stay? How would he stay near Steve? Steve needed Bucky, not the other way around. They were both twenty-two, and it was August. The Japanese would bomb Pearl Harbor in December._

**IV.**

The second time he wakes, Steve doesn't open his eyes at first, just steadies his breathing and takes in his surroundings with his ears, smells. He's reminded of summer days in Brooklyn, when everything could be smelled and everything could be heard, and two boys ran through the streets (one stopping to catch his breath) and pretended they were blind, pretended they had super hearing and super smell. Steve could laugh at that, but it would be a bitter, sad thing.

He doesn't want to be disappointed again, when he opens his eyes, doesn't think that would be fair.

He feels a presence sitting in the chair next to his, and when he slits open an eye, expecting Sam to crack some sort of thinly-veiled joke that he would be forced to laugh at through a raw throat, Steve feels the breath pushed from his lungs, chest heaving. It reminds him of those numerous times where _he_ would hold him and comfort him when he went through an asthma attack.

The metal of his arm is covered in a hoodie, jeans and hiking boots instead of the Winter Soldier uniform, blatant otherness diminished somewhat by the civilian clothes. His head is bowed, a curtain of hair hanging low, hands clasped together in his lap. There's tension in his shoulder, like he's ready to take flight, his feet light and airy on the floor. He's so still, not doing anything, and it's that fact that makes him think that crashing into the Arctic was better than this. Bucky, unless he was shooting, sniping, was never still, not in moments of stillness.

"Bucky?" It's wrenched from his mouth, jagged and weak, _surprisehopesorrow_ infused into every one of Steve's enhanced cells.

The soldier- Bucky, because he will never not be Bucky to Steve, regardless of circumstances- jerks his head up, grey-blue eyes empty and dull, but ringed with a faint air of _angerfearconfusionbrokenness._ Steve wonders if Bucky can even feel full emotions anymore. The man stares at Steve with a tilted head before his face crumbles into... Something. Something even Steve can't understand.

"Don't call me that." Bucky says slowly, enunciating each word carefully. His voice is scratchy from disuse, tone dull and flat as though all emotion were weeded out long ago. If Steve closes his eyes, he could almost pretend it's not him, for a second, could pretend it's some stranger that he doesn't need to care about.

He wishes that it wasn't him. Bucky shouldn't be a ghost, shouldn't be hollow.

"It's your name." Is all Steve can respond with, and he tries to sit up, to see Bucky better, but a solid (cold) metal hand pushes him back, and though his eyes remain carefully blank, the corners of his eyes wrinkle in concern. Steve lets himself be pushed, gaze dropping down to dexterous metal fingers with curiosity, with horror, sorrow.

Bucky sees him looking and draws his hand back, sitting back in his chair. The thumb of the silver hand presses into each of the fingertips in a surprisingly human gesture, and Steve finds himself enraptured by the movement.

He's silent for a few more moments, brows drawn down in thought, before he says, slowly, "I don't have a name." He's hesitant, that much is obvious, and Steve finds it hard to relate this... This man with the creature on the bridge, on the ship. That raw, vicious brutality is starkly different from the unsure man in front of him.

"All men have names, Buck." Steve replies, raising an arching eyebrow from his spot on the bed as Bucky snarls at the name, face twisting in sudden rage. It feels as though if he treats Bucky the way he used to, he can keep himself from sobbing, from responding to this tragedy. He wriggles up so that he's at least sitting, and his glare stops his companion- enemy? friend?- from pushing him down again.

"I'm not a man."

It's automatic, sudden, the words thrown from the soldier's- Bucky's- mouth, a conditioned response. Not for the first time, Steve wants to completely destroy Bucky's captors, make them pay for completely breaking down his friend.

"What are you, then?" He asks, warily, voice shaky. His throat begins to well up with pent-up emotion, as he realizes he can't... He can't treat this man exactly like Bucky. He wants to, god he does. But it's impossible, when the dead eyes in front of him carry only the recognition of someone he was supposed to kill, a mark.

The cool mask of control (or perhaps, it's just emptiness) cracks, shatters like ice on a pond, shoulder lowering as Bucky whispers, "I... I don't know." He looks down at his clasped hands, one flesh and one silver, hair hanging low, and Steve understands then that this man is fragile. That he's shaken something loose from his broken mind on that bridge just a few days ago.

They wiped him and scrubbed his identity away, leaving a shell behind that responds to orders and commands. And now his orders are gone, and his last mission... Was Steve. Captain America was supposed to die on that plane (again), and instead, Bucky saved him. Saved him like he should have when his fingers failed to keep Bucky from falling.

Steve wets his lips, looking at the hunched-over man, and feels the need to huddle with him, like he used to during Brooklyn winters, conserving body heat (Thriving with each other's presence). He wants to keep him safe the way he wanted to be able to do in a frail body, and once again, he's helpless, even with the serum. It feels needlessly cruel to ask, "What are you doing here?" He doesn't care, he doesn't care why Bucky is here, just as long as he is. Here. With him.

The soldier looks up, and locks eyes with Steve again, hesitant as he replies, "I knew you." He sounds confused, head tilting to the side slightly as he regards Steve once more. There's a tightening to his clenched hands, too, and maybe he's mad. It would be something, though. Anything.

The air forcibly removes itself from Steve's lungs _('c'mon, Steve, just breathe. You'll get through it, bud,' he murmured from right behind Steve's ear, solid arms wrapped around the blond's smaller frame as he coughed and hacked)_, at that, mouth agape in shock. "Y-you remember?" Hope wells through his heart, even though he should know better.

"No."

Bucky stands up, hands clasped behind his back in perfect posture, and moves over to the window, brushing aside the curtains to glance out, averting his gaze from Steve. "I don't. Remember. I just... I knew you. Not from a mission. From... Before. Was there a before?"

It's a jumbled mess of words, slightly slurred from a faint Russian dialect, and Steve gets the distinct impression that Bucky doesn't know how to express himself anymore. Doesn't know the words for emotions. Why would he, considering he's a weapon now, an unfeeling thing with no autonomy?

_('What are'ya going to be when you grow up?' Steve asked one day, as they laid in a giant mess of pillows in the living room._

_'I wanna be a soldier like my dad.' Bucky replied proudly, puffing out his ten-year old chest like he was king of the world, a glimmer of mischief and determination shining in his eyes. 'What do you wanna be?' He sighed and laid his head across Steve's lap dramatically, pout of his lips grinning upwards, summer freckles stark on his cheeks, splattered across his nose, and Steve remembered his mother telling him stories about the stars in people's faces, the light of people's eyes and the magic of lips. Steve thought to himself that if he were summer, then Bucky was his night sky._

_'I dunno...' He replied, thinking long and hard, then decided, 'I wanna be a soldier, too.' Because, really, he'd go wherever Bucky went. He was Bucky's now._

_Bucky's eyes had shone and glimmered with happiness, with love, and Steve had ran frail fingers through his hair, thinking about his life and Bucky's, not two distinct things but two entwined threads of life. He had read Greek myths once, and thought that maybe the Fates had threaded their yarns of life together, forever and ever.)_

The soldier turns dead eyes to Steve again, hands clenched at his side. "I don't. Know. What to do. You're my mission. But I... I can't." His voice is hollow, but there's more to it than there was before, a dull sense of emotion. "I don't know."

"Yeah, Buck, I'm your mission." Steve says, giving a drawn-out sigh, before quirking a humorless smile. "I hope you stop trying to kill me, though."

The soldier snarls out a "Don't call me that," but it's half-hearted at best, feet moving him to the foot of Steve's bed, staring, chest heaving.

Steve surrenders, raising his hands up as far as he can, still trying so hard to keep the emotions pushed back as far as he can. Trying to use good-natured humour to bring Bucky back. He never could stay away from a fight, after all, and this one seemed to be an uphill battle. "Fine. What do I call you, then? 'Winter Soldier' is rather... Long."

The soldier mutters to himself in a string of Russian, scowling, before he shrugs, a stiff, unfamiliar gesture. He's obviously not used to making it, not used to giving any sort of assent.

"You don't. Don't call me anything. I'm not… Not him. I don't know you. Leave me alone." He says finally, narrowing his eyes and grabbing the edge of his bed with his flesh hand, tension in every line of his body.

"To be fair, you're the one who came to me." Steve replies, holding himself together piece by broken piece, distancing himself yet longing. He wants to scream and cry because Bucky is right here, right in front of him, but it's not. Not him. Or maybe it is. Too much has changed for the both of them. Neither of them are recognizable, anymore.

His head is starting to get fuzzy again, body still healing, but he wants to stay awake, wants to see Bucky, hold him and never let go (grab his hand to make up for the time you didn't, on a cold Austrian train), see if he still has freckles, but Steve's limbs are loose and exhausted.

He stares levelly at Steve, blank, blank, just a blink of his dead eyes before he turns around and is gone, leaving no traces he was ever there to begin with. He could be a ghost, could be fake. Steve wants to thrash and cry and chase after him, but his head is too fuzzy, too cloudy and he finds himself falling from consciousness.

_(Sometimes, after it happened, he dreamt it was him that fell from the train. Bucky who lived and he who died, because that would have been fairer for the world at large. Would have made more sense. Bucky had promise, was smarter and better than Steve, and Steve was just… Steve. Nobody. Steve was an endless raging summer of anger and headstrong emotions, forever wanting more and more and more. There was an obligation. Bucky protected Steve in Brooklyn, and he would protect Bucky in Europe._

_Why he-scrawny, Brooklyn Steve Rogers deserves to live more than caring, defiant, charismatic Bucky, he had no idea. He may not be physically small anymore, but he was pretty sure he was on the inside._

_Sometimes, he dreamt that he fell and fell happily with the knowledge that Bucky was okay. Those were the worst dreams, the ones that made him scream and shout in barren camps in Germany, because they were dreams. Not reality. And that was the worst of all, to wake up alive and well._

_It wasn't that he wanted to die, it was that he wasn't so sure he wanted to live, anymore.)_

His last realization before waves drown him under blankets (like the Potomac was supposed to do) is that Bucky is probably gone for good and will leave Steve even more broken than he was. Dead and gone for seventy years, and then back, worse than dead, before fading to the shadows like he belongs there. Like he doesn't belong by Steve's side.

He doesn't notice the dog tags laying on his bedside table, faded from the years but still recognizable.

* * *

_Seasons came and change the time_

_When I grew up I called mine_

_He would always laugh and sing_

_Remember when we used to play_

_Music played and people sang_

_Just for me the church bells rang_

_Now he's gone I don't know why_

_Until this day sometimes I cry_

_He didn't even say goodbye_

_He didn't take the time to lie_

_Bang bang_

_He shot me down_


	2. Summer Part II

Summer

Part II

**Bucky**

**I.**

_The blond boy is frail and weak, and he's coughing. Coughing and wheezing in the middle of the street and there's a welt on his cheek, right eye black and swollen, and cuts and scratches on his arms. The set of his shoulders, though, is not in defeat, but in righteous indignation, as though he'd claim he didn't lose whatever tussle he had managed to get in, but had merely... Lost the battle._

_The Soldier- but no, he's no soldier yet, just a boy with two arms and a mischievous smile- walks over with a thunderous expression, even though he doesn't know the boy. 'Who did this to you?' His voice is high and innocent, not like the whiskey gravel of now, and there's a determination there, emotion that's gone now. There's thought in his head, and he can recall more than three days at a time._

_'It doesn't matter.' The blond mutters, trying to turn his broken body away, the effect ruined by a hacking cough that results in blood splatter on the curb, his body hunching over itself automatically._

_'Bullshit.' The not-weapon responds, and the blond stares back in shock, blue eyes wide, slowly-growing smile reflecting his own. The not-soldier is seven- the boy on the curb must be six. They're not supposed to swear yet, his momma told him. There's a faint pride that courses through his head at that, but Bu- the Soldier doesn't know why._

_'Don't worry about me, it happens.' The kid says, in the way that the arrogant know their place, a statement of fact. He's very small, even for six, but there's already a low-lying thrum of sadness in his very aura, his energy. Hands are smudged with charcoal, blond locks smudged with dirt. His dirty overalls are threadbare and patched, and his entire body seems to be threaded together. Bu- The not-soldier can relate, he realizes, because he too is poor, has had to scrape by with his momma in the past._

_'Of course it matters, you punk. I would cop 'em one myself if they were 'round. It's rude.' He says all importantly, swinging his small, inexperienced fist around in demonstration, nodding in front of the boy. There's no technique to the throw, no violence or experience. 'My mama says that bullies are just sad themselves, but I don't think that's an excuse.'_

_The blond kid nods, agreeing, his blue eyes wide and rapt, mouth parted in astonishment. He would never think that the not-soldier's behaivor was from nerves, but it is. 'I'm Steve.' He says, reedy voice excited at the greeting, and the not-soldier grins, head already deciding that this boy is his best friend._

_He extends a hand, all mock-diplomacy, and the kid shakes it, fighting a smirk. 'I'm James Buchanan Barnes, Steve, but you can call me Bucky.'_

**II.**

He wakes up.

He wakes up and there are tears running down his face. Tears not from pain in a battle or a fight, tears not from plastic mouth guards and compressing machines that wipe him, but from something else. Emotion. He swipes at his eyes to clear them, and carefully ignores the way his flesh hand is shaking, the way their metal one is still and clenched in pain. Not a physical pain, though. He doesn't understand.

It is a strange feeling, he muses to his empty head, to go to sleep like a person and wake up like one. To sleep on the ground because of a natural need for unconsciousness rather than cold, probing ice gone foul, small chambers that make him shake and jitter. It is different to fall asleep in waves of fuzzy exhaustion than forced bodily shut down.

He wakes up and he is groggy and annoyed, and a multitude of other feelings he has forgotten the words for. He has never needed the words, and so they left. In English, in Russian, every language he has ever found he knows in his head. He does not remember learning any language, but he knows that sometimes when he speaks in English, there is a slight American accent, something that even he knows shouldn't be there.

The Winter Soldier breathes heavily and deeply, flexing his fingers as the thrall of sleep slowly leaves him and he prioritizes, recalls his missions and orders.

_Mission Status: Rogers, Steven; alive. Time elapsed: three days. Time due: two days prior. Mission failed._

The Winter Soldier's head is empty, everything frozen and cracked and broken and then washed away in a torrent of water. But. But. He's been off the ice for three days and he knew that man. He's been off the ice for three days and he can remember the faces he has seen and the minimal thoughts that have gone through his mind, can remember.

For the first time, he can remember.

After he left the hospital (the sterile environment made him twitch and shake when he wasn't putting on a face for Rogers, flashes of metal and ice and forget forget forget lacing over his mind), he went back to the Smithsonian and stared. Again. He understands who Rogers thinks he is, wants him to be, but he didn't recognize the bright-eyed soldier with the upturned lips (a smile, that's what it's called, not a baring of teeth, not a threat) in the picture, the one who had been the only Howling Commando to die. Didn't recognize the glint in the pictured man's eyes wasn't just bright but sad, as well. He didn't understand. Doesn't understand, still.

The Winter Soldier sits up from his sleeping spot in an abandoned apartment complex. If he could still recite poetry, he would say the dead, threadbare room holds more life than he does. But he can't, and has never had a need for poetry, and so the thought doesn't even cross his mind. He looks around with dead eyes ringed with confusion, and he doesn't know what to think.

Doesn't know how to think.

Runs back through his memories (how quaint that is) of the hospital and tries to comprehend everything that Rogers said. Everything he knew about the Soldier. Rogers called him a man, something with thought, and he wants to laugh, bitterly.

The Soldier does not think he has laughed ever, unless it was for a mission. And even then, they pulled and prodded at the memories to keep him pliant, kept him distanced emotionally, and made him forget it afterwards. The longer he stays out of the cyro, though, the more some of the faded memories of missions are trickling back in.

Rogers was wrong. He's not a person, he's a weapon. He doesn't think, doesn't decide, they point him and shoot him and he shapes the world. If he has a name, it is a name they gave him, like the naming of a sword, only more efficient (He supposes his title is the Winter Soldier).

(They told him he shaped the world and built it up, and while he can't remember if the former is true, he knows that weapons don't build, they destroy.)

_Mission Status: I failed. New orders, please. New directive, please, sir._

He wants them to find him and put him under the ice again. Wants to forget and sleep. He's not ready for the world and the world isn't ready for him, whatever he is. Everytime he sleeps, he wakes up and the buildings are taller and the people are louder. The technology is more advanced, but he's the same. He wants to go under the ice (or maybe sleep with a warm body wrapped around him, but where is that from? That has never happened) and be washed a blank state. Feeling is difficult. Buc- The Soldier failed his objective and has no more; he deserves to be put down.

Maybe he's supposed to die. Broken weapons are discarded, not kept.

The man who was the Winter Soldier heaves himself up and stretches, ignoring the pain in all of his limbs (except theirs), ignoring the pang of hunger in his slowly deteriorating stomach. Ignores the ache in his chest that had appeared when he left Steve.

**III.**

_Everything is sticky and humid, and Bucky thinks that if buildings could slump in defeat, they would now. His brow is wet with perspiration, and his hands (two) feel like hot oven mitts from where they're placed in his pocket. Despite it, though, he's in a better mood than he has been in a while, having landed another job at a factory._

_He decides it's the final push of Summer before Fall gives way, September groaning and writhing against her need to lie down and die. Bucky also decides that he needs to stop listening to Steve's romantic speeches (But of course, of the two of them, Bucky is the poet, the one with the fanciful thoughts)._

_He sighs and continues to walk down the street, stepping sluggishly up his own steps after a few minutes. Sure, it's hot outside, but it'll be even hotter inside, because neither him nor Steve could pay the bill this month. He shrugs out of his jacket as soon as he crosses the threshold to their living room, panting by the time he's down to pants and a wife beater, sweating terribly. Bucky muses, lightly, that if one wanted to make a point to the world, they'd do it on a hot September day like this one, when the weather is full of fury and last-minute desperation and one would gladly lay down to die._

_'Buck?' Steve asks, stepping lightly, quietly from the small kitchen with a smile. "Didn't hear ya come in." He's holding his sketch pad off his arm, charcoal smudged across his ridged nose._

_'Yeah, well, I'm surprised. I pro'ly smell and sound like a dying dog.' He retorts, snorting, his lips tugging up slightly. Bucky appraises Steve, raising an eyebrow at skinny chicken legs and bare torso, smile growing. 'But here you are actin' like a shaved cat, so I ain't complaining.'_

_'Aw, c'mon, it's hot. I don't like it.' Steve whines, folding his arms around his chest, lips pursing in mock offense. Bucky just laughs and laughs, swinging an arm around his skinny shoulders and pulling him into the kitchen. Just seeing Steve look so healthy has improved his move exponentially, because his cough had been worse than usual the week before, and the hot weather usually causes a wet cough that scares Bucky. But he's not. Not coughing. Steve is laughing and there's several sheets of paper in the kitchen filled with beautiful drawings._

_The windows are open but there's no breeze, the wind gone flat in preparation for October gales, but Bucky can't find it in himself to feel worried. He just pours himself a glass of water and watches Steve get back to his drawing. It's quiet in the kitchen, but neither mind, and Steve even hums contently when Bucky pulls up a chair and a book beside him, flinging his legs up on Steve's lap while he sketches._

_He glances over and sees landscape of springtime meadows, blooming flowers and beautifully rendered sunlight, and the two of them, sitting shoulder to shoulder and looking out on the new life of May days._

**IV.**

He wants to return to Ste- Rogers, the man realizes as he's walking down the street, greasy hair pulled back inexpertly and leather gloves he'd stolen concealing his metal arm. He doesn't know why, and it's hard to think through the sheets of ice in his brain, but he does.

James Buchanan Barnes. It makes his head ache, thinking about it, brings flashes of brilliance that make no sense to the forefront of his unprepared mind, and he has to watch himself from growling and snarling in public, in front of normal people.

_Mission Update: What is my mission? I need a new one, please. Please, sir. Please. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease-_

The man who was the Winter Soldier stops walking at the sight of expensive aviators, of feathery hair and an aura of arrogance turned sorrow. His mind whirs, but it's the comforting sort of thought, the one that means objectives and files and whatever else his handlers gave him, deemed important.

For a moment, he gets an image of a flighty, genius of a man hunched over a table, pointing pencils at a map. Gets an image of a flying car doomed to fail, and a big unabashed grin, a shrug. Gets the image of an older man with the same grin, except the grin is gone and his head is bloody, there's a knife sticking out of his chest. The images get more and more frantic before the Winter Soldier forces a lockdown on them, dredging up files and objective and information, instead.

_Stark, Anthony Edward (threat). Father: Stark, Anthony Howard (deceased)._

"He mentioned you a couple of times, Leanord Shelby, but I didn't think you would have the whole Severus Snape hair going on. Seriously, have you washed anytime in the past week?" Buc-The soldier doesn't think he's ever heard someone sound so cocky, so arrogant, yet at the same time carrying so much self-deprecation. And this man obviously knows who he is, knows that he's a weapon not to be trifled with. It takes courage, he thinks.

He tenses, cocking his head as he tries to sort through the words, the meaning, but it's difficult. "I don't- What?"

This just seems to goad on Stark more, a grin- not bared teeth- spreading across his face. An image of the other man (Howard Stark) superimposes over the younger, and the Winter Soldier's posture stiffens even more when the image disappears and the memory of his own hand driving the knife into his chest unlocks and floats through his head lazily, a ribbon. He's good at killing, and yet this Stark steps closer to him. The soldier's eyes flick to assess the threat, the danger. There's a lot.

Stark raises his hands, raises his brow. "At ease soldier, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm a friend of Steve's." He pauses, a downward smirk landing on his face, eyes flicking to his covered left arm. He looks slightly disappointed, as though he wants to see it. "You hungry? I'll spot you. I bet you are. You could also use a shower, though. And a shave. And a haircut."

His words are sudden and fervent, the rambling mind of a genius- and yes, he knows that Stark is a genius, would have known without having ever read the file. Or as much of the file as he was allowed. It's obvious in every line of Stark's wealthy body. The Winter Soldier tries to keep up, eyes widening, but all he can say is, "Steve?"

"Yeah. Rogers. You know, about yea high, likes patriotic tights?" Stark rambles, grinning again. He grins, but his eyes are sad. The soldier does not understand that. Stark holds out a hand, his stance easy and fluid (he shouldn't be, he shouldn't be, I'm a weapon, he wants to say), continues, "I'm Tony Stark. You can call me Tony, though. All these super hotshots think that just because I'm rich they have to refer to me by last name or 'sir.' Can't get JARVIS to stop doing it, either."

The soldier stares at the outstretched hand, face blank, and regards Stark- 'you can call me Tony' (you can call me Bucky)-, and can't help the faint tug of his lips. It's weird, to feel his face move without him wanting it to, but then again, his face had contorted into desperation, confusion, rage, longing with Rogers on that plane. Tony slowly puts his hand back into his pocket, and the soldier is fairly certain most people would slink away at that, be embarrassed or annoyed at the denial, but Stark merely looks amused.

"Well?" The man asks, after a few moments of silence, arching an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Well…. Do you want to come get food? A shower?"

Oh. Oh right, he can have opinions now. Opinions are for men, for humans. Maybe… Maybe he can become a human again. Again? Has he been a man before? (Maybe when I was that boy, he thinks to himself). He shuffles on his feet, uncomfortable, and just mutters out, "Y-yes, sir…"

"No, no, none of that." Tony reaches forward to clap the soldier's shoulder, good-naturedly, and all of a sudden, Stark is pushed against the wall of whatever building is closest, a knife at his throat. The soldier is not sure when that happened, but it seems he let his thoughts go away, just reacted. He notices he's shivering, shuddering, and he doesn't know why.

It seems with each memory and with each lack of an order, lack of a wipe, his careful control is weakening. He needs his orders, he needs his commands so he can obey and do what he needs to. So he can made his handlers happy and then go back into his chamber to sleep the years away again.

"I…" He murmurs, staring into Stark's eyes, feeling more fear than he ever has before.

"Easy, soldier. I'm a friendly." He has his arms raised on either side of him, but Tony doesn't look scared, at all. Maybe he should. He carefully doesn't examine the fact that Stark has not called him by any name yet.

The soldier withdraws, slowly, knife gone as soon as it was there. "I…" He murmurs again, vision going hazy, unfocused. Several people on the street were staring at them, some with recognition of Stark in their eyes, and the others with fear and concern, and the Winter Soldier spins around, snarling at them to move. They scurry away like rabbits from wolves. He's afraid of his own violence, in a way he has never been. Mostly because he has never been told to.

Stark steps away from the wall, running callused hands down his shirt as though to remove the touch of the soldier away from him, as though it were a fine expensive shirt, despite the fact that it looks worn and faded, some sort of rock logo on it. The soldier doesn't blame him for wanting to get rid of Bu- him.. "Well. What do I call you, then? I'm not inviting strangers into my DC hideaway."

The man who was the Winter Soldier- because he does not think he is that weapon anymore, not entirely, not always- sucks in a breath, confusion pooling in his eyes again at the question. Because he's beginning to think that perhaps he should have a name- all men have names- but he doesn't… Doesn't… "I… Don't. I..."

"You're very repetitive, you know. You can always change it later." The smile slips off Stark's face for a moment, before he forces it back on, pretending. He seems to pretend a lot. Stark is being kind to him and he doesn't even realize it, but the soldier knows better than to take it for granted.

"Um… James, then." The soldier- James- says after another few moments of silence. And it fits, really. Because he might not be the Winter Soldier completely anymore- No, not when he has the growing sense of autonomy in his head and thawing heart- but he's not Rogers' Bucky, either. But James works. "Thank you."

Tony looks unexpectedly pleased at that, clapping his hands together in a fit of sudden energy, and that tug of the lips is on James' face again. "C'mon then. I made JARVIS park the car a block away."

The soldier- James- isn't sure what that means, but he follows anyways, hands laced behind his back as he goes, and listens to Tony Stark's errant rambling. He finds that he likes the man, and in and of itself is a strange feeling. To… Like. To care whichever which way.

**V.**

_Bucky twirls in his neatly pressed uniform, staring at himself in the mirror appreciatively, mouth upturned into a smirk. Summer freckles have well and truly faded by now, leaving his pouty lips and bright eyes to feel just a little bit more… Manly. Or something. Steve tells him that that doesn't matter, that it doesn't even make sense, but he's not so sure._

_He hears a low whistle from behind him, and Bucky turns, smirk turning into a grin as Steve appraises him, hands hooked into his pockets. "Not bad, Barnes." He says mockingly, grinning. "Green suits you, surprisingly." He puts a brown paper bag on the table, turning to face Bucky._

_Tipping his hat sardonically, Bucky bows low, blue-grey eyes glittering as they lock with Steve's blue. "Why, thank you. I've been told it attracts all the dames."_

_"Mm, I bet." Steve winks and moves to place his groceries in the kitchen, bare feet padding over the faded wood floors of the apartment. "Bought some of them apples you seem so fond of. I always think they're unripe, though. So green."_

_"Yeah, well, maybe I like green. I look good in it." Bucky sits at the kitchen table and watches Steve put the fruits and veggies away, an eyebrow cocked._

_They're going for lighthearted, light airy conversations, but there's a tension in the air, a feeling of oppression that hadn't been there since humid days of the summer. Bucky knows why, but he doesn't want Steve to get his hopes up. Doesn't want him to succeed. It's selfish, he knows, but he doesn't want Steve to be able to go to war. Doesn't want to see him suited up and equipped with a gun._

_Bucky knows that Steve will die in Germany, so each time he is denied the chance to join, he feels a twist of sick pleasure._

_"Number four today, Buck." Steve says after a few moments, slicing up an apple with ample fingers. "No dice."_

_"Oh." Bucky murmurs, averting his gaze, "I'm sorry, Steve." _No I'm not._ "You'll get in soon." _No you won't.

_"Yeah." Steve mutters, sighing heavily, his entire chest heaving, his skinny frame pale and silhouetted in the low light of the kitchen. He forces a smile on his face and looks to Bucky, eyes full of so, so much. "Wouldn't want to leave you alone in Germany, now would we?" _Please do.

* * *

_Charlie boy, don't go to war, first born in forty - four_  
_Kennedy made him believe we could do much more_

_Ohhh_  
_Lillian, don't hang your head, love should make you feel good_  
_In uniform you raised a man, who volunteered to stand_

_Play the bugle, play the taps and_  
_Make your mothers proud_  
_Raise your rifles to the sky boys_  
_Fire that volley loud._


	3. Summer Part III

**Bucky**

**I.**

_It's June and school has just let out. The air has the faint ring of relief in it, the sharp, fresh scent as everything settles in for summer. The release of life from spring has bloomed into the vibrancy of summer, and the students, at least, are excited. Bucky whoops and hollars with the rest of them as he jumps off the last step of his elementary school, double fisting the air in over-exuberant motions. His heart is aflutter._

_"Fuck Ms. Reynolds and Mrs. White and all the rest of those frigid bitches!" He shouts to the sky at large, as though the entire world is listening to him. "I, Bucky Barnes, am a free man at last. At last!" He turns and shakes a fist to the school, defiant smirk on his face as he does._

_"Yeah, yeah, Buck. Except for the fact that there's more schooling in the fall." Steve stays from behind him, shooting an eyebrow up at Bucky's displays of dramatics. "In a logical sense, sixth grade follows fifth."_

_"Okay, math hotshot." Bucky snorts, pummeling a fist into Steve's shoulder goodnaturedly. "But it won't be here." He skips ahead of Steve, shaking his hips a little as he crows, "I'm a free man! No more oppression under corrupt regimes!" Steve rolls his eyes but hurries to catch up, his oversized shirt falling off his shoulder as he does so. Bucky has begun to round out his figure, shooting taller, but Steve hasn't grown much, still tiny in the long run._

_Bucky breathes in a breath of fresh air, exhaling on a satisfied sigh, easy-going grin spreading across his face. Yes, the air rings with the promise of good fortune and as much luck as a twelve year old boy can muster. He has warmth, no school and Steve by his side and something new for the fall. All in all, it's not a bad combination._

**II.**

He has no record to go off of, but the Soldier does feel that he has reacted to most everything of the past few days in stride. If there is one thing he knows how to do, it is how to take orders. But there are none, and so he obviously knows nothing. It's simple logic.

So, all in all, James does feel he is doing alright. He has managed to push down any emotional response beyond the deepest, most insistent pulls (Most of them relating to Rogers). Perhaps that is why the panic that sets in once he comes near Stark's car is all the more sudden, all the more surprising.

Stark's continuous dialogue had run the entire time they walked down the street, the chill brisk air nipping at the back of James' empty skull. He had droned the genius' voice out and let himself fade into the background, focussed on the immediate mission. Because he had to. Couldn't exactly focus without a goal, without orders. And so he quieted his mind by saying the new objective was to follow Stark.

He could not parse out any harmful intentions in any of what Stark promised him, and in fact seemed excited, overjoyed at the prospect of helping him. The Soldier was not going to argue, because he needed the help, needed the direction. Besides, Stark is a friend of Rogers, and James feels the need to stick close to the blond man.

But the fact of the matter is, as calm as he looks on the outside, as calm as he tells himself he is on the inside, as soon as Stark places a hand on his back to usher him into the passenger side door of the newest sports car money can buy, his mind clouds over with the fog of panic, clear electric shocks (like the precursor to the Cold, the Cold), and he twists from Stark's touch, back against the car.

He notices, numbly, that his heart rate has ricocheted, and if he weren't in the midst of some sort of delayed shock, he would be assessing the situation with a distant, blank look. But instead, James feels himself slide down from the half-defensive crouch he was in to a position where he can draw his knees up, too-long hair covering his eyes as his body shakes and shakes.

At least this time, he hadn't nearly slit Stark's throat. But- no, the knife is in his palm, the metal one. He's not even holding it by the hilt but by the blade, and if he were holding it in his right hand, the palm would be a bloody mess of useless meat.

Anything that hasn't been wiped from his mind is floating through his mind all at once, the slow, summer storm churning into a violent, electric summer frenzy, of _blood_ and _gore_ and _blue_, _knives_ and _guns_ and '_till the end of the line._ And then _bloodbloodbloodblood._

He can't breathe, oh god he can't breathe, there is no control of the situation and no orders and he is hopeless and without purpose and there's nothing, nothing, nothing except the promise for more pain and more electricity in his brain and more _Cold, Cold, Cold._

Mind wipes and aching, bone-numbingly exhaustion, blank spots like catacombs in his head. Scrubbed clean and raw like the weapon he is, until the memory of a freckled boy and his small friend were gone, forever. There's a litany running through James' head, and it sounds like Pierce's, like any number of his handlers in the years before. _You're not him, he doesn't exist, it's fake, all those memories are fake. You are no James Buchanan Barnes, you are no person. You are The Weapon, The Soldier, the Winter Soldier. Ours, ours, and you should be grateful._ And a smaller, pitifully high warble of _You can call me Bucky, you can call me Bucky, youcancallmeBuckybuckybuckybu-_

"Hey, hey, buddy… Are you okay?" Stark has been talking, The Soldier realizes distantly, but it's only these newest words that manage to fly through the electric whistle in his ears, manage to go to the center of his previously-emptied mind. Tony is crouched in front of him, two feet back as though apprehensive about his reaction. Good. He should be. He should be terrified.

"Buddy. James. Hey. Come out of your head." Stark says when he notices James' eyes flick up for just a moment. "You're here, not… Wherever you are. With me. Safe. Well, relatively speaking." There's a practiced relaxation to Stark's limbs, a deep understanding in his eyes that nearly manages to make James start crying then and there. He doesn't get understanding, sympathy. He gets orders and brisk commands.

"We're in DC, there's nothing to fight. Nothing to be scared of except bigwig politicians and people trying to recreate Rocky scenes." Despite the forced humour, James feels himself relax, minutely, some of the haze in his head relinquishing their cloudy hold. He forces himself to focus on Stark, on the forced off-handedness, on the lingering traces of sorrow in the older (younger?) man's eyes.

James scrubs hands over his eyes, even though he isn't crying, forcing out a few deep huffs, the rest of the clouds dissipating from his mind as quickly as they had appeared, his limbs going slack from exhaustion. Just because he had slept didn't mean he had slept much. "S-sorry." He murmurs, though he doesn't know why. The Winter Soldier did not apologize, did not panic, just did as he needed with no mercy. A cold-hearted killer, not an apologetic dunce.

Stark waves him off, shaking his head. "Don't be. It happens." The Soldier doesn't ask, seeing the closed-off expression on Tony's face at the words. "But, um, are you good now?" James notices suddenly that Stark's chest glows blue, and feels viciously disappointed that he hadn't noticed, before, too surprised and memory-adled to take any of that into account.

"Y-yes, sir." It slips out into that monotone, obedient tone that The Soldier uses with his handlers, the pliant, unthreatening thing that had taken years (He thinks, he isn't sure) to hone down to an art. Stark frowns, fingers twitching, and reaches out a hand from where to stands to pull James up.

The Soldier stares at the outstretched hand with wide eyes for a moment before reaching his flesh hand out slowly, grasping Stark's hand with a visible flinch, expecting pain. He has never been touched gently. It has either been as a punishment for a failure or the clinical, distanced touch that a weapon deserves. But Stark's hand is strong and gentle as he heaves James upwards, The Soldier moving quickly.

"None of that 'sir' thing, I told you. It makes me feel old. Frankly, it's just sad, Jason Bourne." Stark's voice is teasing, friendly, and a deep instinctual surge of… Something that James has no name for, makes his lips quirk up into a small smirk.

James brushes his hair back, shrugging. "Whatever you say, Sta- Tony." Something inside his chest tells him he should be more snarky, should be quick-witted on his feet, but there's nothing forthcoming, so he just turns away from Tony and slides into the passenger seat of the car, trying to ignore how small the space is, how confining.

Stark slides into the car, and he pats the steering wheel affectionately. "Found a new tramp, JARVIS." He proclaims proudly, but to what, James has no idea. There is no one else in the car; he would have had them by the throat if there was.

_"Very good, sir. Does he require medical assistance?"_ The posh British tones float through the car, and The Soldier's knife is out in a second, his back ramrod straight, looking for the threat and growing more and more apprehensive when he can't. Stark is staring at him, straight-faced, before he bursts into laughter, patting the stereo again.

"Now why do you assume he's hurt?"

_"Well, your friends do have a habit of appearing with substantial injuries, sir."_

"Point taken. JARVIS, this is James. James, this is JARVIS." Stark looks oddly proud at that, but all The Soldier can do is stare back at him numbly, slowly putting his knife back into the denim pocket with no small amount of hesitation. He's been shocked into silence- well, more silence than he was already- at both the joyous laugh and the disembodied voice.

_"A pleasure as always."_ There's a pause, and then, _"Have no fear, Mister Barnes, you're as safe as possible."_ Stark rolls his eyes and dons his sunglasses again, starting the car with a well-rumbled purr. Compared to the large armored cars he is used to, it's amazing. He has never liked cars, he doesn't think, but this is okay.

If possible, JARVIS' voice sounds sardonic, a twist of irony in the words, but James has no idea how. And with anyone else, he would be snarling at the use of the last name, because he is not Barnes, can't be, but it feels rude. "Zdravstvujtye, JARVIS." He says, and feels a little ridiculous speaking to thin air. But he's mostly relieved that he can feel ridiculous in the first place. "I expected flying cars from the 21st century, not smart robots." He doesn't know where the words come from, nor the warmth that's in them, but it must be the right thing to say, because Stark snorts, lurching the car away from the curb.

**III.**

_Summer under the weight of all their military paraphernalia is truly an agonizing experience, especially in the middle of the Harz forest. The July wind feels cool on Bucky's skin, but unfortunately, the wind bursts are few and far between, and he can the look of exhaustion in all of the other Howling Commandos. He glances ahead to Steve, the man walking with a spring in his step as though he doesn't notice the heat, and Bucky sighs._

_'Steve, c'mon. We've been marching for six hours, we need to rest. It's near on ninety out here.' He says, the rest of the men nodding in agreement, Dumdum even muttering out a 'fuckin' right it is.' Bucky notices distantly that his own head is less sweat-drenched than the other men, though Steve's is completely fine. He wonders for a moment why that is._

_Steve looks back, ready to argue, but the look he must see on Bucky's face makes him pause and falter, turning back around and nodding. 'Yeah, okay, Buck. Sorry fellas, I got a little carried away.' He drops his pack to the forest floor and the rest of the team do the same, sitting directly down on the ground in weary relief._

_Bucky glances to them all before doing the same, grabbing a canteen and taking a well-deserved drink. Steve sits beside him, his too-broad shoulders bumping into his. Bucky has to hold back a flinch, still raw and confused and flighty about what happened with… With Hydra. He smiles, though, something large and dramatic to put Steve off edge, bumping his own shoulder into the blond's. 'Gotta remember that not all of us are super soldiers, y'know.'_

_The captain ducks his head, abashed, and gives a small self-deprecating smile, hands twirling around each other. "Yeah, Buck, I know. I just… You know. Want them gone." Bucky nods slowly, careful to keep his expression neutral. It's unspoken why Steve is so adamant. It's because he was tortured at their hands, because he's still a little shell-shocked about the whole ordeal, even if it has been almost six months by now. Bucky doesn't know what to think._

_He hadn't told Steve all they did, hadn't wanted to. They'd made him forget things, for a while, in Hydra captivity. Had pumped him full of weird chemicals and serums (He's not stupid; he knows he's got some of whatever's raging through Steve's veins in him, if only something more brutal), and done… Things… To his head. There was a reason he was so out of it when Steve came to get him, why he had been repeating his name and rank over and over and over again. He hadn't wanted to forget. They'd kept making him so confused and out of sorts that he would forget everything, if only for small bits of time, curiously blank in his head until everything flooded back again at the next sign of pain at their hands._

_Bucky gulps, forcing down the rising bile in his throat. It doesn't matter what they did, because he was saved._

_Steve is now able to protect him the way that used to be Bucky's job to Steve. He doesn't get it, really. It's such a foreign concept, but he likes it, kind of. But he also misses the carefree, smaller Steve that would never shoot a man point-blank in the face because of his uniform. With a pang, Bucky wishes they were in their Brooklyn apartment, the hot and suffocating July day turned into something fair, and they would open a window and light some candles, lounging around all day with a book and a sketchpad, light breeze tickling at Steve's hair._

_But no. It could never be like that again. Because the Steve in his mind was small and thin, without all the pain in his eyes that he hold now. The Steve in his mind had never killed anybody, and the Bucky in his head hadn't, either. If they both survived the war, Steve would probably never be allowed to return to civilian life, and Bucky doesn't know if he could return to that lifestyle. God, he wants to, but in the way the nostalgic think about the future. In the way that crackpot Freud said men look towards their past to predict the future._

_He doesn't voice any of this out loud, just says, "Don't worry, I bet we'l beat 'em by Christmas" and smiles, downing another mouthful of water and ignoring the stressed lock to Steve's jaw and the permanent wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. He imagines he looks no different, and Bucky thinks of the times Steve looks at him with concern whenever he spaces out, his head leaving a giant blank space for just a moment as he tries to get his bearings back, hands shaking slightly. "By Christmas." It's 1943, and the summer is raging (there's no thought of a cold, cold winter or Austrian trains, not yet.)_

**IV.**

For the second time, Bu- James realizes that he has an opinion between 'like' and 'dislike.' He likes Stark, though he likes JARVIS a little more. He dislikes car rides, but this car is okay. He dislikes the crowds on the streets, his hands clenching at the threats, as his head calmly tells him which people he could safely kill from the car, how each and every person he sees could be dispatched.

Stark's 'D.C. Hideaway' turns out to be an expensive apartment with cozy wood floors and modern furniture. It's… Quaint, James muses. Exactly what he would expect from Tony, who seems to flaunt his wealth as much as possible. It's most likely overcompensation, and his lip quirks up, because he's pretty sure it's a joke. Or not. He's not sure, after all.

"Mi casa es su Casa." Tony announces as he ushers The Soldier in, grinning as wide as his face allows. James steps in and casts his gaze around, checking for threats, for exits and entrances and the safety of the entire apartment.

_"If you wish, I could outline the apartment's layout, Mister Barnes."_ JARVIS' voice cuts through his scouting, and James feels his head shoot up to the ceiling, as though he'll find a pompous british man hanging from the ceiling. He wouldn't be surprised at this point.

"You're so nice to my guests but when it comes to me you're a british prick." Tony mutters, slipping his shoes off and padding into the kitchen, instantly at ease and relaxed. For a moment, James envies him.

"I… Um… I'm fine. Thank you." He gives one last look around the apartment before deciding to follow behind Stark, not really sure what to do anymore. His carefully laid-out objective was to follow him, and that he will do. He stands a few feet back, feeling rather uncomfortable at the domesticity of it (at the absence of an order to kill), watching as Stark makes himself two drinks, sliding one of the tumblers over to him.

"So," Tony says after he drinks down at least a finger of whiskey, "Do you want me to tell Steve you're here, or not?" It's obvious he's done his homework, or spoken to Rogers at one point or another, considering how much he seems to know about The Soldier. Or at least, he knows the basics and has been dancing around the issue. James isn't sure. Stark is a man who either knows everything or pretends he does.

The Soldier freezes at the name, his empty head flooding with ribbons of… Of emotions, he thinks, but he's not sure. He feels something, though. He wants to see Steve, so, so, so bad. He needs to see Steve. But he can't, not yet. Not when he's exhausted and confused and still coming down from some sort of panic attack. And Steve puts him on edge in a way he's never been before. Against his better judgement, he trusts Stark, but he can't trust Rogers yet. "I… Not yet. Tomorrow, if that's okay. I think I need to… Um. Think." He pauses, glancing at Stark's face, tugging his eyes down to the ground again. He's so damned confused, all the time now. "I don't want to get angry and… Um, kill him. He is, after all, my mission. Or was. I don't know."

Tony raises a brow at that, but all he says is, "Wow, that's the most you've said. You get chatty when it concerns Steve. Whoo, boy, what have I gotten myself into?" He chuckles, downing the rest of his glass with a grimace and point at James. "Regardless. I promise not to say anything until you say. Even if Rogers'll punch me in the face with that super arm of his when he finds out."

"Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. Go take a shower. You smell like the Cold War. And as I've had to listen to at least three patriotic rants in the past twenty-four hours by Super Soldier, this is America in 2014 and I will be having none of that." Tony cracks a grin, and James is almost positive he hears a sigh from JARVIS.

* * *

_Wait until the war is over_

_And we're both a little older_

_The unknown soldier_

_Breakfast where the news is read_

_Television children fed_

_Unborn living, living, dead_

_Bullet strikes the helmet's head_

_And it's all over_

_For the unknown soldier_

_It's all over_

_For the unknown soldier_


	4. Summer Part IV

I.

**Steve**

Steve absolutely hates hospitals, from the deepest, darkest pits of his body. He can't stand the cloying smell of disinfectant hiding sickness like a veil, can't even bear to think about the hundreds of sick and dying people. It reminds him of his youth, of the dozens of times he had to go, his weak lungs and wracking cough lending quite a scare throughout the years. Both then and now, there's an underlying sense of hopelessness in the doctors, in the nurses, in the patients, even if whomever the emotion belongs to is okay, is going to heal.

It makes him miserable.

He can hardly move for fear of pain, and his body feels weak and heavy from the pain medication. All in all, it's an absolutely horrid experience that he would like to never repeat, ever. Sure, it's his first visit to a modern hospital, but he's had his fill for the rest of his life, thank you.

But all of that is nothing compared to the sour mood he's been thrown in since Bucky left yesterday. It's been almost a day and he's still scowling and feeling the ticks of impatience. Feeling hurt and depressed and not even a little hopeful. He sighs, dropping his blond head back to the pillow, his right hand scratching idly at a spot where the ridiculous blue hospital gown digs into his side at the seam.

"Well, someone's all out of sorts." A voice drawls from the doorway, amusement ringing in her voice. Natasha steps into the room, chewing gum absently as she glances around at all the medical equipment present. She's dressed down to basics- jeans, T-shirt and boots, terrifying casual in the way that she somehow manages in even the most precarious of situations. "Annoyed that _the_ Captain America has to sit around and heal when there's cats in trees somewhere?"

When Natasha smiles, it's genuine, and it warms Steve's heart to see her start to grow into herself more, start to shed herself of cold exteriors and hidden agendas. He thinks, truly, that whatever she becomes will be marvelous, shining and fiery as her hair.

"Har har, Tasha." Steve lifts his head, waving a hand for her to take a seat, slightly uncomfortable whenever someone looms over him. She sits herself down gracefully, ever a queen in the most mundane a situation, getting herself comfortable. "And here I thought you were out looking for a new cover."

"Haven't found one yet." She inspects her nails but it's not in the way the guilty deflect, but that pseudo-casual way that tells Steve immediately that she's here for something. "So, I guess I'm sticking around to babysit you and Stark, who've seemed to have gone absolutely crazy."

"Oh? We've just now gone crazy? What was the tipping point?" Steve doesn't examine how she must know he's been talking to Tony about the whole Winter Soldier ordeal, doesn't even bother to ask. The one thing about Natasha was that she'll tell you what she wants, regardless of how much you ask her. She'll either say her piece or glare and then say her piece anyways. And most of what she said was to the point, without stating the obvious.

"He's dangerous, Steve. Both you and Stark must know that." Natasha says after a moment, raising an unamused face to look at Steve.

"He came here, not the other way around. I had to tell him that.. I can't help who comes and goes, Tasha." Steve counters, waving a hand around in irritation, stopping himself from giving a dramatic sigh. Yes, of course it's an excuse- he would be out there searching for Bucky right now if he was allowed to leave the bed and Natasha likely knows it, but he knows it's not a good idea to express wishes to go after a Soviet mass-murderer.

Natasha stares at him for a moment, surprise dancing across her face as she says, "Then… You don't know what Stark did, do you." Not even a question. It's a statement, through and through , ending on a sigh that carries out as Natasha slips out her cell phone, tapping through it quickly. If they were anyone else, the movements could make her seem normal.

"What? I told him about what went down on the phone earlier, but he hasn't done anything. I don't think." Steve pauses, furrowing his brow and sitting up slowly. "He did something, didn't he." The friendship between the two was strange at best, horrific at worst, a battle of snarky men trying to outwit the other. Not that Steve wanted to outwit him, per say, but bring Stark down a notch. Despite that, they still managed to form a relationship that extended to Steve actually liking the man, and, hopefully, vice versa.

She tilts her head, holding out her phone with a smooth ease. Her fingernails are chipped and cracked, and Steve notices suddenly that she's bruised and scratched and generally beat up in a way that makeup can't completely hide. He takes the phone, and she points to the top of the conversation.

**Rogers' boyfriend is a shaking mess. U sure he's the WS?**

**Yes. Stark… What did you do?**

**Oh nothing. Nothing to worry about. Not at all. He's been in my shower for an hour now, though. Gentle as a fly. Well, he almost slit my throat, but he seemed sorry. **

**You're an idiot. On my way.**

**No, no. You can tell Steve whatever, but neither of you can come here until tomorrow. He's scared witless.**

**Fine.**

**Love you too, baby girl.**

**I'll actually slit your throat if you ever say that again.**

Steve tries not to blush at the hint of Bucky being his boyfriend, but it doesn't even matter after he reads through the rest of the texts, his heart fluttering in hope, joy, relief, anger, rage. He hands the phone back mutely, thinking, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened. So, Stark found Bucky and for whatever reason, Bucky went home with him. For whatever reasons, Tony is describing him as 'gentle,' which doesn't seem exactly true. Who knows. "Why does he have to get his dirty mechanic hands all over everything?"

Natasha slips her phone into her pocket, shrugging. "It's his way of showing he cares. But whatever the case is, I'm fairly certain Stark's out of his depth here."

"Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah." She leans forward, blinking rapidly. She looks hesitant and off, and Steve wonders, not for the first time, about all that she's gone through to make her become this way. Closed-off and fake, and only occasionally showing her true self, whoever that may be. "Your friend was erased, Steve. Eradicated. They made him an empty shell and then forged an obedient weapon out of him. If he's even still a person, there will be so much programming and conditioning to get around that it will be like being near a landmine for months, years." Her face is completely smooth, no crack in the paint at all, and Steve realizes just how brilliant of a spy she really is. There is no personal history in her expression at all, just a blank slate and cool knowledge.

"He's still in there." Steve says, wincing a little at her words. Natasha looks ready to interrupt, so he continues, "I spoke to him yesterday. He doesn't remember, but he's not completely detached, Tasha. I saw emotion in there, and when I got to close to it, he fled."

Natasha looks at him for a moment, the flicks her eyes to the bedside table, eying down the dogtags. "Even if he somehow remembers the man you want him to be, he won't ever be him, not fully. He would always be a cross between your Bucky and the Winter Soldier. What are those?"

Steve looks over at the table, sucking in a lower lip. "I know that. I just… I don't want him to leave again. I'll go to Stark's tomorrow and see how that goes over." He picks the metal up in his hands, glancing down at the hand-worn metal. The letters and words have been nearly smoothed down by years of touching, but they're still readable. _Steven G Rogers._ He doesn't know how Bucky got them.

"Steve. What are those?"

"Dogtags. Mine, actually. Bucky must have left them here. I dunno… I dunno how he got ahold of them." Steve clenches his hands around the cold, biting metal, the palm of his hand warming them up. He'd tossed the tags after Bucky died, a middle finger raised to the rules and customs of the army. He hadn't cared. But how Bucky… A Bucky who didn't even remember him, who was more Soldier than Brooklyn boy, got them. He had no idea.

Natasha must see the conflicted bouts of emotion crossing his face, because she just nods, then stands, hovering over him. "I'll try to help. But don't get your hopes up. I don't, actually, want to see you hurt." She leans down and presses her lips against Steve's forehead, and in another era, in another moment, he would assume she liked him romantically, but it was just a comforting gesture. He counts it as a positive that she can do those, still. Steve closes his eyes, breath hitching unbidden at the sudden flow of emotions coursing around, and she steps back, her gaze searching.

He hasn't had such care- from Natasha, from Sam- since the war. Hasn't really had such care since Bucky was his and he was Bucky's. Natasha's hand lingers on his face for a moment, a caring, sisterly gesture, before she begins to walk out of the room, calling backwards, "We'll plan tomorrow. Rest for now, Steve."

"I'll try." He replies, cushioning himself back down into the thin bed, trying to listen to her walk away and failing- she's silent as ever, almost like she was never there, and it makes his chest squeeze again, thinking of everyone who keeps leaving without leaving a trace. But the one trace that did get left behind was by the ghost. He trails his fingers over the name again, and begins to murmur songs from his youth.

II.

_They're huddled around a bonfire and the rest of the Howling Commandos are singing songs, a litany of swell jazz tunes and anti-German propaganda. The air is calm and quiet, without that oppressive heat from earlier, and Steve thinks for a moment that maybe the worst of the summer stench is gone, that they'll get at least a month of cool, easily traversed breezes._

'There'll Be a Hot Time in the Town of Berlin when the Yanks go marchin' in...'

_Bucky is sleeping glued to his side, and that's the only reason that Steve hasn't moved. It's an excuse, just like Bucky always says, and the men can't possibly argue. He twitches, left hand clenching and unclenching in some sort of dream-state annoyance, rage, and Steve suppresses a sigh, suppresses the urge to pull him in closer._

_They'd fought off a small unit of Hydra soldiers earlier, the stench of sweat and blood and gunpowder all that could be sensed, and Bucky had not done well. Steve thought he was okay after he had been captured, but he'd spaced out in the middle, standing stock still with his head cocked to the side and a terribly confused expression on his face. An expression that turned to horror and fear when, naturally, one of the Hydra soldiers came to rush him. It wasn't the normal fear, either, but the terrified, knowing expression of someone who understands they're about to be tortured and die._

_He'd only survived because Steve managed to throw his shield hard enough that it slid neatly into the Hydra's stomach, a horrible sound that managed to wake Bucky up from whatever stupor he was in, eyes clearing and stance tensing as he jumped right back into the fray. Steve got the distinct impression that he was trying not to think about it._

'There'll be a hot time in the town of Berlin when the Brooklyn boys begin to take the joint apart and tear it down...'

_Steve grimaces when Bucky's hand clenches tight around his wrist, the dark-haired man blinking open cloud blue eyes. "S-steve?" He asks, then groans lowly, shifting away from his spot at Steve's side, leaving the captain cold and lonely. "Sorry. Must've dozed." He rubs at the back of his eyes, casting his gaze around the bonfire and the singing men, then turns back to Steve and smiles._

'You could never keep 'em happy down on the farm, the life of these would never please they'd shudder with alarm...'

_"It's alright, Buck. Go back to sleep. You need it, man." He doesn't say how Bucky sleeps less but still functions, doesn't say anything at all about earlier today, just pats a hand on the log he's sitting on, gives a short smile._

_Bucky stares at him for a few seconds, then nods, laying a head on his shoulder and gives the old Italian salute to Falsworth, who had looked over at the two with a weird look on his face. "Don't much like sleeping anymore, Stevie, but for you, I'll try." His voice is full of mocking brevity, but Steve can hear the underlying fear, sorrow in his voice._

_He pats the top of the man's head, earning a scowl from Bucky's closed-lidded face, and says, "Don't you worry. We'll sleep for twelve hours straight in a pillow fort when we get back home, Buck. Just you wait." He can feel Bucky's smile, knows that his eyes are crinkled at the corners, but Steve just leans his head back against the still-standing tree, closing his eyes with his own smile._

III.

Steve wakes up to the sound of his phone blaring the generic ringtone, jerking a hand over to answer. "'Lo?" He grumbles out, voice sleep-heavy and scratchy, eyes blearily adjusting to the hospital bed. He swipes his free hand across his eyes and glances at the clock on the bedside table, almost groaning. _4:37 AM._

"Huh? Oh, hi, Rogers. Good evene- Oh, it's morning now. Wow, time flies." Tony's voice babbles from the other end, still so annoyingly chipper despite the obvious fact that he's been awake for over a day.

"Tony?"

"Yeah, Cap, thought that much was obvious. Did I wake you up? Jarvis is dutifully informing me that most people are asleep right now." Steve is literally going to kill this man. He's going to take his shield and beat him upside the head until he's sleeping. Honestly. Tony continued to ramble for another minute and half, Steve slowly losing interest, before he hears, "Oh, but anyways, I'm calling about James."

Steve's instantly awake, sitting up and hunching over himself, eyes scanning the room as he thinks. "James? Uh, Bucky?" He asks, even though he knows, obviously, who Tony is talking about.

"Yeah. Don't call him that yet, though. Accidentally called him that when he was getting out of the shower and he almost slit my throat. Again. You chose a hell of a friend, Cap, I'll tell you that much." Steve's heart stutters at the casual way Tony says it, mind going numb and blank at the admission that Bucky, his Bucky, nearly killed Stark at least twice in one day. Mind going numb at the fact that he's using his real name, now. Maybe it's not Bucky, but James is close enough. _My name is James Buchanan Barnes but you can call me Bucky._

"Did something happen? Is that why you're calling?" Steve asks, carefully ignoring the other information, the overabundance. Tony, Steve thinks, would be the worst spy on the planet Earth. He would accidentally tell the bad guys everything from plans to the hierarchy of an organization within the first five minutes.

"Huh? Oh. Right. Nothing happened, I just thought I'd bring you up to date. But, since you seem to know he's already here, that little spider must have snitched." As much as it took getting used to, Steve had started to like the way Stark voiced everything, the intonation of his voice. Even now, with such a delicate conversation, it calms him, lets him know nothing is seriously wrong.

"Yeah, Natasha was here earlier. I should be alright to go tomorrow." Steve pauses, sucking in a breath, before he says, "And, uh, Tony?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think I could stay there a while? My apartment's been, uh, compromised and I-"

"Well, I'm not going to cook for Barnes 24/7, Steve. I'll text you the address. Bring your shit around… And maybe some ear plugs. Your friend keeps screaming in his sleep." There's a sound of rustling in the background and a door being closed, and Steve strains to listen for screaming. He's relieved that he hears nothing in the same moment that he feels horrified that Bucky is screaming about anything. He's relieved he doesn't have to explain himself to Tony, that the man understands his embarrassment and just accepts him into his home.

Steve runs his hands over his eyes again, bone weary and tired, and mutters, "Okay."

There's silence on the other end, except for an ever-patient Jarvis asking Tony to eat, please in the background, and then a heavy sigh. "Hey, I'm not gonna lie. He's a mess. More than you saw probably, since you mostly got the obedient, 'I have orders and purpose' Winter Soldier and he doesn't have that now. But we'll get through it. I want to help."

"Why?" Steve asks, because he can't… he can't imagine everyone trying to help him, helping Bucky. Bucky, obviously, considering the carnage he was forced to do. But him, as well. If Steve had just reached a little further, this never would have happened. Bucky would have survived that train and lived out a life (He carefully does not think about how bad Bucky got sometimes, after the Hydra base, how confused he had been occasionally in what had to be a precursor to his memory issues now).

"Consider it part of my penance." Tony jokes, but it sounds horrible brittle even to Steve's ears. "Okay. I'm trying to be good, and you're my friend, Steve. If you say he's good, I'll believe you." There's a crash from the other line, and Steve feels the breath rush out of his lungs. "Oh, fuck. I gotta go. Jarvis is throwing a fit because I haven't eaten when, and I quote, I'm a 'wealthy genius who can easily find access to food.' See you tomorrow, Cap." The line goes dead, and the sudden silence in the hospital room is deafening, is a torrent of noise in its own way, and Steve feels he'll fall and drown under the weight. He decides there's been too much drowning and falling lately, but it's a bitter sort of thought.

One thing's for sure, though. He will stay with Bucky for as long as it takes. Maybe it's the stubbornness of his soul (_Oh, Stevie, your momma was right. You're a raging, burning summer. It's fucking great. But it doesn't mean I gotta put up with it, Jesus. Put the damn apples away.), _but he won't leave. He'll never leave. Never let Bucky fall again. He rolls over and slides his eyes closed, but he knows he won't sleep again. For though the thought of Bucky having a mission puts ice in Steve's soul, Steve has his own mission now, and that's to help Bucky.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Hello, it's Ravenously here. First of all, would you be interested in a chapter from Tony's POV? I'm on the fence about it, but if there's enough assent of dissent, it might sway my addling mind. Second of all, sorry this one is a litttlleee shorter than usual. All this buildup fluff needs to be finished before I can get into the... Well, frankly disturbing imagery and post-brainwashing that's going to happen in the upcoming chapters. Which, I suppose this is a warning. Yes, I alluded to a mental breakdown earlier, but the next chapters will feature heavy, heavy triggers. Suicidal thoughts, blood, gore, you name it. Heavy PTSD.

As for the chapter breakdown themselves... I was originally going to make each 'season' have 4 parts, but that obviously isn't going to happen. So, I'm going with the flow, I suppose. To be clear, though, there will be four parts. Summer, followed by Autumn, followed by Winter and finally Spring. Each part can flow nicely with Vivaldi's Four Seasons, but obviously I supplement my own music into there as well.

The music that the Commandos were singing is (There'll Be a) Hot Time In The Town of Berlin" by Bing Crosby and Andrews Sisters (1944).

Please, do input your opinion, your ideas and whatever in the reviews... It is your reviews that are the reason I'm posting this, otherwise the story would stay safely in my mind. As always, the story is also on AO3, and my tumblr is springbucky. Thank you, Xo.


	5. Summer Part V

**Bucky**

**I.**

The man who could be Bucky Barnes stares bewildered at a fast-babbling Tony Stark, the latter of whom is frying up eggs with zero skill, the large stovetop covered in a variety of foods that tickle at the Soldier's nose. He hasn't smelled such foods in… Well, he's not entirely sure.

After his shower- Which Stark informed him was long enough to be considered 'brooding'- Stark had made him eat. It had been… Strange. Strange that he was allowed to choose what food he wanted, strange that the food he _did_ choose was not a pulpy mash of tasteless nourishments.

Stark had fed him and clothed him and had even joked about bedding him 'The Shamhat' way, whatever that means, had given him a room and fresh sheets and then had disappeared down the hall to what the genius had called his lab. James had been grateful and confused, but he knew better than to ask, knew to just take his orders- which weren't so much as orders as _help,_ how quaint- and wait for the next instructions. Eventually, it had been the AI Jarvis who suggested he sleep, or read, or do something other than sit blank, and the man who had been the Winter Soldier had complied, and fell into a restless sleep.

Neither of them, at the breakfast table, speak about his loud screams the night before. Neither of them even try to discuss the long angry red gash across Tony's forearm from where James had pulled a knife on him the night before. He had apologized, numbly, but Stark had said it was his fault and left it at that. James had mumbled something about how he was a very kind handler and Tony had left soon after, emotions shut away and anytime he woke the rest of the night, it was Jarvis who calmed him from absent murderous intentions.

Tony is humming some song that the man who was the Winter Soldier remembers from a mission in the seventies,' a mission that had been deemed safe for him to recall, and he leans forward from his spot at the counter, listening intently. So intently, it seems that he flinches when Stark's voice cuts through the lyrical tunes and says, "So are you gonna eat like a normal person today? Or am I gonna have to guide you through the motions."

Surprisingly, James feels a light flush creep up the back of his neck, fidgeting where he sits. Stark had obviously been disconcerted about how James didn't eat anything unless prompted, but it hadn't made sense to the Soldier at the time and so he continued doing it.

"I… Sorry. I'm… Not allowed, normally. To eat what I… Want." Want. What a strange, small word that means so much in the long run. A word that the Soldier is still unsure of, but Tony, that _Steve_, expects of him. He averts his eyes, hair hanging in front of his face as he mutters, "Sorry, sir."

He doesn't… He just doesn't know what he's supposed to do. He thrives on the orders, and so he told his cloudy brain that Tony were his orders now, but Stark wants him to think for himself and do things he doesn't know how to do, doesn't know exist, and really? Really? He's just waiting for the hammer to drop. For the illusion of safety and freedom and memories to fall away and for him to blink awake. Blink awake and see a handler grinning in front of him, spouting how _he failed the test, failed the mission, wipe him_, and he'll go back to no thought.

He can't say the idea isn't completely without merit, and that sickens his half-wakened mind.

Tony is staring at him, eyes wide, and he sucks in a lower lip, scooping a mountain of food onto two plates and sliding one over to James. "Don't be sorry, don't call me sir. Eat what you want, do what you want and come to me with any questions and concerns, yada yada." He pauses, hesitating before handing a fork over to the Soldier, eyes full and honest for the first time. "I just want to help you. No more SHIELD, no more Hydra. You got it?"

The Soldier stares down at the plate of food- '_Wow, Stevie, sausages and eggs and toast today! Who woulda thought ol' Ms. Robins, bless the hag, woulda been so nice?!'_- then back up at Tony, panic fluttering in his eyes. He doesn't… Doesn't get it. No more Hydra? He is Hydra. Hydra uses him. Hydra made him. Doesn't Stark see that? He will always go back to Hydra, because they forged him, and weapons return to their masters. It's just a matter of time before the bottom drops out. "You're wrong." He says, small and meek, because to disagree means pain, and he just doesn't _know._

Stark pauses from a mouthful of egg, cocking his head, before he muffles out, "No. 'M not. I won' let'em get to you." It takes a few moments for James to parse through the words, but once he does, his eyes widen, brow knitting together. Tony is… Protecting him. There's… Warmth in his eyes, and other things the Soldier does not know words for, does not know any longer, before he nods.

"Eat."

The Soldier does so, with more fervor than the night previous, much to Tony's delight. After a few more tense minutes, Tony loosens up again, babbling about the intricacies of creating a pair of pants that would be able to change shape with transformations- The Soldier does not know what he is talking about, but he nods where appropriate- and James does as well. It feels surprisingly good to eat without the watchful eye of someone terse and unhappy, feels surprisingly good to bask under the sunny jabber that is Stark.

He finishes his speech, and quiets again, which makes James look up, fear in his eyes. Is it over? Are they going to take him away, again? His left hand feels unconsciously in the sweatpants for his knife before remembering he gave it to Tony the night previous, shaking and crying and whimpering like a beat dog (even though he was the one that had been violent), and his face twitches for just a moment.

All that Tony does say, though, is, "I offered for Steve to come stay with us. He's getting let out of the hospital today, and I know he wants to see you." It's surprisingly gentle, soft-spoken for Stark, and James sees it for what it is. He can tell Tony that no, he doesn't want Steve here, and the man would comply. But that would be unfair to both of them, all of them, and he nods, scooping one final mouthful of egg into his mouth before pushing the plate away lightly. He ate half of what was there, which he's counting as a plus.

"Okay." He says, after he swallows, giving a sharp nod. He's not sure how he actually feels about it, though. There's still the deep, underlying motion that tells him he needs to kill Rogers, to finish the mission and report, _stat_, but he doesn't want to hurt the man. Not anymore. He doesn't… Doesn't want Rogers hurt, ever, except when he does. "I… Keep the weapons away from me." He doesn't trust himself, not when he's acting on his own will. Sort of. Kind of.

Stark looks sharply at him, but nods, saying, "Fine, but don't complain to me when there's no kitchen knives to cook, bud." James doesn't respond, just carries his plate to Tony and blinks, nodding.

Stark waves him away and grabs the plates, throwing them in the dishwasher and chattering to Jarvis, and James wanders over to the living room, bare feet padding on the floor. He's been so tired, lately, so exhausted and hungry and needy, and he wants it to stop. Wants to just go back to normal. Whatever normal is.

Normal is Cold and Ice and Numbness, but he doesn't want that. He lays down on the couch and feels warm, warm and comfortable, and though his head is still so empty and cloudy, it's not blank, not wiped, and he lets himself close his eyes, forcing his brain to remember that Stark can be trusted.

**Tony**

**II.**

He feels out of his depth on this one, in all honesty. A quick look behind his shoulder confirms that the Soviet Mass Murderer Who's Actually a Good Guy (So says Rogers) is sleeping, slumbering away. Sleeping, he looks no more harmless than an overgrown dog, lips turned down into a severe pout and that interesting, sexy arm of his twitching occasionally in agitation.

Tony knows the reality, though, knows better than to think the confused, half-braindead soldier in the other room is anything but dangerous. With a capital D. His nearly slit throat (twice, mind) and long gash are testament to that fact. But even so, even with the raw, brutal violence that Barnes holds inside his body, Tony can't help but pity him.

He shouldn't he knows he shouldn't, and there's about a million reasons why running through his head, but he does. Or, if not pities, sympathizes. Yeah. That's more like it. "You think he'll stay Sleeping Beauty for the next couple of hours or turn Maleficent at the first sign of trouble?" He asks aloud, turning the dishwasher on and stalking out of the kitchen.

_"Well, according to his breathing patterns, he should stay asleep for a while, sir. Should I get Mr. Rogers on the phone?"_ Jarvis' voice rings out, softly, as though the AI knows better. Tony's honestly chosen to conveniently not examine the fact that Jarvis has surpassed any of his programming, any of his theories and is now closer to a human consciousness than a machine. It's… Comforting, in a way.

"Ew, don't call him that. I'm not inviting the neighborhood creep over, I'm inviting Steve over." Tony replies, stepping into the makeshift lab in the back room, nodding happily when he hears the sound of a connecting phone over the speakers in the lab. The makeshift humour sounds stale even in his own ears, terribly put upon, but he doesn't know what to do. He's Tony Stark, the one who laughs in the face of tension, the one who goes through an anxiety attack and pretends nothing happened afterwards. And he knows if he starts thinking just how absolutely fucked Barnes is, he's going to feel anger pool in his gut and sadness overtake his brain. And he needs his brain fully operational at the moment, thank you very much.

"Hello?" Oh Steve. Bless, him. Honestly bless him. The poor kid doesn't know just how lovestruck he sounds. Tony should be awarded medals for not saying anything.

"Capsicle! My good man, what a beautiful morning. Well, except for my wounded forearm, but that's that. I just finished having a wonderful breakfast with James and he's passed out on my couch!" He really can't help the excited flow of thoughts from verbalizing themselves, and it's obvious that Steve's trying to keep up.

"Oh… Well, that's good. I think. Listen, what time can I come by? I really need to-"

"See him, yeah I know. You're gonna have to be careful, though. Like I said. You'll see. Anyways, whenever you wanna come by is fine. The apartment is plenty big- not as big as New York, but maybe we can hitch out there next week or something. Did you leave the hospital already?" Sometimes, just sometimes Tony wished he had a filter, if only so that people could keep up with the piles and piles of information that he unloaded in one breath.

"Uh… I'll be over in an hour. Most of my injuries have faded by now. Uh… Thanks again, Tony. I appreciate it." His voice is hesitant, full of so many emotions even over the phone, and Stark has to suppress a sigh. This is going to be a lovely, lovely house. He can't wait to get back to Stark Towers, if only to invite more of the Avengers to make him happier.

"Yeah. Don't mention it." Tony murmurs back, then disconnects, rubbing a hand over his face as he sits on a stool. Barnes is fucked up, that much is blatantly obvious to see. But it goes beyond just the simple PTSD. No, he's starting to think that hasn't even hit yet, that the panic attack yesterday was just a precursor. This kid is so utterly fucked up in the head that it'll take more than him with his rudimentary knowledge of what happened. He just really, really hopes that Barnes doesn't kill them in their sleep.

"Jarvis? Anything Barnes needs or wants, he gets. Monitor him."

_"Of course, sir."_

**Bucky**

**III.**

_Once, in the hot month of August, the Winter Soldier ran away from his handlers. Well, put like that and it sounds like he escaped from their bonds and shackles, but he'd been on a mission. He'd been on a mission in New York and everything felt eerily familiar. He'd assumed it was from an earlier Mission, something they'd let him keep vaguely but had mostly wiped, but it was something deeper than that._

_Deeper than the veils of his mind that They placed there. And after he'd finished his mission- a clean shot to a politician who had way too much Capitalistic promise for his handlers and the man's mistress- he just… Failed to check back in. It had confused his dead mind, but because it was the only thought in his head, it won out. A thought beat out his orders for just a moment._

_He'd wandered around the streets of New York with that sense of deja vu thrumming through his bones, and they hadn't found him for a very long time. He had just started to remember- blond hair, blue eyes, patchy clothes and baseball games-, his mind brimming, whereas his stomach was starving and his face was unkempt and grizzled, when they finally did._

_It had been perhaps two weeks of him wandering around, homeless and aimless and without a mission, his head empty but remembering, remembering, when they shot him with a tranquilizer dart and he woke up in the back of a van, his handler's face looming over him with displeasure. The Soldier had mumbled that he was sorry, sir, so sorry, but they hadn't listened to his apologies, and began to methodically strip him of ever wanting to run away from them again, each_ please_ punctuated by an electrical shock to his brain, his brain, each _I'm sorry, sir_ interrupted by a hollow scream from jagged gashes across his arms, from giant bruises on his legs._

_They made him repeat, over and over, that he was not a man, he was not James Buchanan Barnes, but he was their Tool, their Weapon, and he was to obey. Obey and stay silent. He was a silent weapon, a ghost operating for them, and he understood. How could he not, when there were tears and blood intermingling on his face and he was deprived of all nourishment for three days?_

_They wiped him, clinically and methodically, the machine burning, burning away all of his memories of the encounter, but they let him keep the punishment, the feelings behind the punishment. When the Winter Soldier was led back to his cryo cell, his head was scratched clean and empty, an obedient puppet that spoke only when asked direct questions, but he understood that he was theirs, and he was not human. He couldn't run away because a Weapon without aim accomplished nothing, and he was grateful they had retaught him that, had fixed him when he was broken._

_And there was nothing but _cold, cold, cold,_ and-_

**IV.**

He snaps his eyes open at the sound of a door creaking open, and the first thing he sees is The Mission staring at him dolefully, eyes wide and full of emotion, and all the Soldier can think is it is weakness and folly and can be exploited before he's launched himself across the room, metal arm pushing The Mission down easily.

The Winter Soldier straddles Steven G. Rogers and clamps their arm around his throat, squeezing, eyes blank and dead and absent. There is no anger or sadness burning there, because he is a Weapon and he is not to feel, but to do as he is told. To complete his mission. And the man known as Captain America is his mission.

The captain struggles beneath his grasp, strong arms _(bigger than they used to, bigger, stronger)_ reaching to push the Soldier off of him, causing the latter to grunt and push down further, grasp harder. He feels The Mission's breaths get weaker, his struggles softer and less precise, and the Soldier feels himself bare his teeth in a semblance of a wolf's smile, wanting the mission to just be over with, already. He wants to sleep.

_"B-Bucky!"_ The Mission gasps hoarsely, on whatever air is remaining in his lungs. There's a moment where the Soldier thinks it is stupid to waste such precious air on a name, before said name sinks into his bones and he collapses back, clutching the metal arm to his chest and flinging himself backwards, against the couch.

He's shaking and shivering, he knows, knees drawn up and head bowed low. James doesn't know why, doesn't understand why he doesn't want to hurt this man- Steve Rogers, the man with blond hair and blue, blue eyes like the sky- but he can't, he can't, not even when it's his Mission, when it's his orders.

"What the fuck. Honestly?" Tony says from the hallway, staring at the two gasping (for different reasons) men, jaw ticking. "Hi, Rogers, glad you could make it to the welcoming committee."

Steve Rogers waves a hand, taking in another couple mouthfuls of air, before he gasps out, "Yeah. Was kind of expecting cake instead." He slowly gathers himself into a sitting position, glancing over at Tony before turning his full attention to the Soldier, voice soft and careful as he asks, "Are you okay, now?"

James gasps and tries to stop shaking, tries not to be so weak, but he almost killed someone without knowing it, and there's still memories from that dream floating hazily through his head, reminding him of the _Coldcoldcoldcold,_ and he'll be surprised if Tony doesn't send him back to his handlers now to be wiped away and retaught. He's not worth it. "No. I'm not. I'm… Sorry." The Winter Soldier does not apologize, but he's not longer the Winter Soldier, not entirely.

Steve waves him off, still sitting a few feet back, shrugging. "It's all good. Um. James, right? That's what you want to be called?"

The Soldier nods, still huddled over, and the captain looks him over once before standing, rubbing at his neck as though to massage the bruises that James left there out. Steve moves out of his peripheral, likely over by Stark, but the Soldier stays where he is, stays huddled and broken and dismayed at the lack of control over his body.

This is what he meant, earlier. He can't trust his decisions, can't trust them can't trust them can't trust th-

"Bu- James!" He jumps at the noise, so close, and he realizes he snapped his eyes shut after Steve wandered away, had tuned out the low-sounding voices of both him and Tony. "Sorry. Um. I'm okay, though. Honest. I shouldn't have spooked you." James stares up at Steve in shock; how is it that the good captain can be okay with this? Can be okay with him almost killing him again?

But he's not okay with it. It's obvious in his eyes. James might not have the words to express or understand them, but they're lurking there, and the closest that the Soldier can think of is sad. Steve looks sad, and it's not the fake mocking sad that his handlers sometimes wore on their faces, but the genuine kind that makes James want to disappear into nothing for having caused it.

James frowns and shakes again, muttering, "Sorry. _Sorrysorrysorrysorr-"_

"No, no, stop, it's fine. I told you. How about me and Tony make some food while you, um, shower, okay?"

Rogers' voice hardly floats through his head, and he just repeats the litany of sorries over and over again, until Stark says, sharply, "Soldier!" and James feels his body snap up, standing to attention immediately, looking at Tony and awaiting further instruction. His body jitters and shakes but he wills it away in the face of a potential order, potential purpose. "Fuck. Jesus. Uh. Fall out. James. How about you go shower and we'll make you something to eat?"

Honestly, the idea of food sounds sickening at the moment, but the Soldier just nods, sharply, and hurries down the hall, trying not to hear or see the urgent looks and whispers from Steve and Tony as he goes. His steps are short and brisk but silent, and James numbly wonders when they taught him to move silently, or if James Buchanan Barnes knew how to move silently through German forests.

He's not-

He's not the Winter Soldier anymore, not entirely. Mostly, he's mostly the Soldier, the unfeeling, obedient killer than wreaks havoc. But not entirely. He's not James Buchanan Barnes either, yet.

Maybe, maybe he's something new, something forged from both men, something equally as sorrowful and hopeless and pointless as the others. He doesn't know. The Soldier shakes for twenty minutes in the shower, letting the hot water (it's not _coldcoldcold_) loosen the muscles in his back, and he tries not to cry. Tries not to feel or break down, but he can feel the emptiness in his head cracking, ice groaning and shifting and he thinks, for the first time, that maybe his head isn't empty, but just hidden and locked away, two separate people within his one.

He hopes it's not true. He just wishes for orders and long sleep and knows, intimately, that caring is not an advantage.

* * *

_We had no cameras_  
_To shoot the landscape_  
_We passed the hash pipe_  
_And played our Doors tapes_  
_And it was dark_  
_So dark at night_  
_And we held on to each other_  
_Like brother to brother_  
_We promised our mothers we'd write_  
_And we would all go down together_  
_We said we'd all go down together_  
_Yes we would all go down together_

_Remember Charlie_  
_Remember Baker_  
_They left their childhood_  
_On every acre_  
_And who was wrong?_  
_And who was right?_  
_It didn't matter in the thick of the fight_

Goodbye Saigon


	6. Summer Part VI

**Steve**

**I.**

He can't breathe. His breath has stuttered and stopped and the only reason he's upright is because Tony has led him over to the sink for him to grab onto, fingers clenched into the table so hard it's nearly cracked. The sound of his stomach, his throat, clenching and unclenching, dry heaving, is the only sound in the kitchen, muscles spasming.

Steve will not cry.

To cry would be an admission. It would be the acceptance that what just happened- That what Bucky is now- is true, is the stark cold reality. To weep would be to realize that sharp-mouthed Bucky died on that train in Austria and left behind a one-armed ghost with winter's icy glint piercing his empty mind.

One sob wrenches itself from his throat before Steve clamps it down quite literally with his palm, biting down hard on the flesh to keep from crying out. He won't. He will not give in. Bucky is still there, regardless of the show.

The show… An image of violence turned fear, a switch as clean and cut as a dagger's knife.

Steve thinks… No, he knows, that he would have let the Soldier kill him if it meant not causing anymore pain on his friend. Even if the man that had tried to squeeze the life out of him wasn't his friend, wasn't… Bucky. It was the Winter Soldier through and through, and Steve doesn't think he can believe them to be the same entity, not one bit.

When his heart rate returns to normal, his muscles relaxing, he slumps over the counter for a few moments before slinking to one of the positively modern chairs, his arms threaded into his lap. Tony steps cautiously around him, sitting in the chair opposite and stays silent for a moment before he says, "Yeah, I would have told you the whole 'Winter is Coming' speal if I knew. I didn't- Sorry, Steve. He was good earlier."

Steve nods dully, raising blue eyes to look into Stark's brown, face carefully neutral. "Has he… Been like that? The shaking and the violence and the…"

Tony shrugs, moving just one shoulder as he does so, giving an involuntary sigh. The sound of the shower down the hall can be heard, faintly, a cruel thrum of water interrupting everyone's thoughts. "Not like that. He had a… Break last night. But I got the picture that was self-defense. This was…"

"An attack." Steve finished, nodding slowly. The tension in the room is palpable, a sticky, heavy thing that reminds Steve of suffocating August summers that produced dry coughs of blood and phlegm. It's not a comforting thought. It doesn't help that it actually is hard to breathe, that his throat is tight and hot around the bruises that Bucky- James, now, have to remember that- left. "I can't…"

Stark gives him a long look, before he says, "Look, Cap, I'm not gonna be the one to tell you this is insane- Well, no, I am. This is insane. He is going to _murder_ us in our sleep." He looks resigned, furious at himself that he has to say it, but Steve wishes brutally that he would just shut up. He doesn't want to think of Bucky as a murderer, as a brainwashed lunatic with so much violence humming underneath his bones as to be visceral.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Steve asks icily, eyes gone cold and distant as he stares evenly at Tony, any of the previous weakness gone, shut away in the face of the problem. "It's not like we can consult SHIELD in the matter."

"Yeah, that's another thing. Didn't you think to fucking call? Honestly, Steve. That's some big important news and you just neglected to call in?" Tony stands up and rummages around- with what, Steve doesn't know, because he's still staring ahead-, the sound of his overcomplicated coffee machine whirring to life with what could only be described as a disgruntled _whuff. _It's obvious that he's ignoring the first part of Steve's question, and the captain is suddenly thankful at that, at least.

Steve sighs, and carefully pushes away anything that has to do with Bucky, with the Winter Soldier, anything. He thinks through his next words, before just mentally telling himself fuck it, and says snapily, "I was a bit busy, Tony. Y'know, trying to prevent the collapse of the free world."

A mug of coffee slides its way over to Steve, Tony giving the captain the bitchiest look he can possibly muster before taking a sip of his own. Steve drinks half his cup in one go, burning his throat in the process, but he doesn't care. Just wants the caffeine.

The shower down the hall shutters off, and the ensuing silence from even that is worse, somehow, than when it was going, when it was just on the edge of Steve's peripheral. He notices Tony sitting down again, leaning in close, and he turns back to face him.

"Just. You can't act like he's still your friend. Not entirely. It… It'll be hard. I don't know. I've never dealt with this. This goes beyond my Jason Bourne knowledge, you know. I wasn't joking about going to New York. I could contact Banner." Steve softens his glare, drawing a tongue over his bottom lip as he takes Stark in. Tony looks… Well, haggard. They all do, probably. There's a couple bruises marring his arms and a long gash on the forearm, deep shadows under his eyes. He normally has exhaustion bordering on insanity in his eyes, but this is… Steve nods, blinking.

He doesn't know why Stark is doing this, doesn't understand how the man can have an abundance of good will out of the blue. He doesn't know how to thank him, either, not without embarrassing either of them. It's obvious that Tony cares about him, in whatever way that he shows itself, and that's a stunning fact in and of itself. So he just fakes a good old, patriotic smile and says, "Aw, you do care."

**II.**

_He stalks into the hospital with barely concealed rage, not that anyone would ever in a million years be even vaguely threatened by his balled fists or clenched jaw, so small and thin as he is. Not to mention he coughs right before he demands "To see Bucky Barnes, ma'am." He can feel sweat welling up from the back of his neck at the base of his hair, skin feeling sticky and wet from the humid day. It hadn't been a good day for his cough, but that didn't even matter now, now that he knew Bucky, his Bucky, was in the hospital._

_The receptionist gives him an unamused look, pursing her cherry red lips, but all she says is, "Family only, dear. He's a bit out of it, at the moment. Codeine, y'know."_

_"I'm family." Steve says, firm and unquestioning. "Let me in. He'll be madder if you _don't_ let me in."_

_She purses her lips again, tapping perfectly manicured nails against the desk, before giving a sharp nod, swivelling around in her chair to flip through the book that holds his room. "Fine. Room 211." He voice is rough and hollow, tinged with a bone-deep exhaustion, and Steve pauses for just a moment to figure out what could possibly drive a person to sound that way. To continue living the way she does without doing anything about it._

_He doesn't voice any of that, though, just nodding and giving a faint "thanks, ma'am,' and then he's down the corridor, a bitter smile placed firmly on his face as he hurries along, steps echoing on the hard floor. He doesn't rest until he gets right outside Bucky's door, and though he wants to step in quietly, just in case his friend is sleeping, a heavy cough rises from his deep in his belly, wet and hacking and he's forced to bend over double, waiting for the spasms urges to pass._

_"Steve?" He hears, hoarsely, and Steve sighs, stepping into the room. Bucky is laid out, eyes half-lidded from whatever drugs they gave him, and his upper arm is bandaged, several gashes over his forehead and temples. Bucky gives a sloppy grin, one side of his mouth rising higher than the other. "Steve, now le' me explai-"_

_"Bucky, honestly, only you could get yourself nearly killed packing boxes." Steve comes to the foot of Bucky's bed, staring at the man, searching, making sure he's really, actually okay, and Bucky's grin slips a little under the scrutiny, looking slightly dazed._

_"Got in a little tussle, ya see, with this bastard, and the box-cuttin' knife slipped from it's spot on the table. Looner just stabbed it in further. Gashed me right up to the bone. I dunno how it happened. Fluke chance, y'know. The fight, that is." Bucky babbles, the grin rising again. Though he's normally chatty at the best of the times, the drugs make his speech slow and slurred, but still brimming with things to say, feelings to verbalize. "Gotta say, it'll be a wicked scar, huh?"_

_"You're an idiot punk, Buck, I swear to god." Steve murmurs, relief flowing through his veins. He moves to the side of the bed, reaching down to press close to Bucky, for just a moment, listening to the soft puffs of the man's breath. His skin is warm and flushed, summer freckles high on his nose when he turns his face towards Steve, their noses nearly touching. "I was so worried, Buck." And he was, he so was. His heart slows now, but it was beating a hundred miles an hour, just a couple minutes ago. _

_"Aw, Stevie. I didn't know you cared so much." Bucky murmurs, nearly at a whisper, his ridiculous slur made less absentminded by the completely lucid look in his eyes, for just a moment. His breath tickles at Steve's skin, causing the smaller man to suppress a shudder, tingles running down his spine. Steve nods, pressing his forehead to Bucky's, the two so, so close in the vivid sunset-lit room, white curtains fluttering at a sudden faint breeze, the oppression of August heat lessened just a bit. They sit there for seconds, minutes, hours, days, who knows really, basking in each other's warmth, until Bucky falls asleep under the weight of hazy drugs, and Steve moves to the chair beside the bed, falling asleep himself not much later._

**Bucky**

**III.**

He tried, he really did, not to think about The Miss- Steve Rogers while he hurriedly cleaned himself. Didn't want to think about, dwell about the man from the bridge, the thing he both simultaneously wants to murder and protect. It's a confusing swirl inside his head, but the shower helped. Marginally.

The man who was the Winter Soldier is still shaky, jittery when he leaves the stall, hands too unsteady to do much more than sit at the edge of the bed for a few moments, trying to get his bearings.

It was bearable- this autonomy, this wandering- when he didn't have half-formed memories floating lazily through his head. It was tolerable when the image of a frail, blond boy wasn't superimposed with the image of blood and brain matter splattering the street behind him. Now, though, now, he thinks of anything and another image replaces it, something he had been made to forget, if only to keep him sane.

Well. Sane is relative, honestly, because there can be no soundness of mind when there is no mind to keep healthy.

James gives a shuddering sigh and rubs the heel of his flesh hand at his eyes, blinking rapidly for a few moments before dressing himself, jerkily, on autopilot, into a fresh pair of sweats. It's all that's clean, all that's in the room he's staying in, and he doesn't question it.

He pads quietly back into the kitchen, apprehensive. He doesn't know if Steve forgave him, doesn't want Tony to stare at him like he's a landmine waiting to off. It might be true, but he doesn't want it to be. Wanting is so exhausting. Both men are on the phone when he enters the room, and both falter in their conversations as soon as they see him.

The Soldier pretends not to notice, sitting heavily in the only other chair in the kitchen, letting himself space out. His hair is waterlogged and heavy, but he pays it no mind; it's the last thing on his mind, right under the constant aches and bruises that always mar his skin in one way or another. He flinches when Tony slides a mug of coffee to him, but he gives a short nod of thanks, not wanting to interrupt the phone call.

James sips at the bitter liquid (But so, so good, heavenly, really) and tries not to listen to their conversations, but it's rather difficult when both start to get heated up, annoyed in their calls. It's bewildering.

"Pepper, I'm _fine_, I told you. No- _No_. No need for you to come back. We're good. Besides, you're probably safest where youre a- _YES,_ I'll be fine…" Stark rambles off a million miles a second, those short bursts of energy that James is slowly growing to both admire and despise all in one vein.

"Yes, I'm perfectly sane, Sam. _No,_ I didn't hit my hea- Stop, I'll be _fine_. Huh? No, no he hasn't spoken Russian to me-" And at that, Steve glances over to Buc- James, offering a thin smirk and an eyeroll, and all the Soldier can do is stare wide-eyed with his mouth hanging partially open. It's all so… Casual. The both of them. Astounding. "Wow, you're a_ jerk._ You know I'm getting like half the references you're spouting at me? What? _Yes,_ Sam, I'll call you. Text you, whatever. I can't say; they could be listening in to phone calls, you know. _Fine._ Stay safe, yes,_ yeah_ you too. Bye."

Steve ends his call right when Tony is practically whining, "I'm not gonna blow up the house, Pepper. Have a little fai- That was like, _twice._ Okay, yea, love you bye, _yes,_ I'll send Banner your love. _Love."_ Stark ends his call as well, passing a hand over his mouth before rolling his eyes, giving a few low chuckles.

"So, Wolverine, did the shower help?" Tony asks as soon as he twists to look at James, that arrogant smirk back, fixed into place. It seems, then, that him leaving the room helped all three of them. Good. James is glad that everyone- including himself- have had time to sort through his actions. Even if the Soldier is still confused.

He nods, though he doesn't understand what Tony's nickname means, taking another sip of coffee. "I- I had a dream before I… Woke up. It. Confused me." He turns to Steve again, blinking. "I'm… Sorry. Again. I didn't mean to nearly murder you." It's curious that there's no obligation of formality like there was with Tony, but the Soldier just imagines it's because Steve was supposed to die by his hand- there was no need for any titles other than the Mission. But, of course, that doesn't explain the warm familiarity that hums beneath his skin, spreading outwards like nebulous neurons.

Surprisingly, Steve smiles, seemingly against his will if the way his muscles seem to fight the motion for a second, before he's grinning. "No harm, no foul." The Soldier notices that when Steve is smiling, fully and brightly, he's like the very sun itself, golden in both hair and personality, and it makes James' mouth quirk up into a faint smile as well. Nothing large- just a small upturn of his lips, and he imagines it looks unnatural on his face. Nothing like the grinning man he saw at the museum.

Steve's eyes are blue, bluer than he thought possible; they're the day sky without a cloud in sight, clear and full of confident purpose, and James imagines that next to his cloudy, confused muddled blue, Steve's eyes are the most gorgeous eyes in existence. The good captain, for his part, stares right back, drinking him in, and James feels a stab of… Something… Knowing that Steve isn't looking at him- for him- but for his friend. Bucky Barnes.

"You always were a punk. We used to share a bed in the winter, 'cause it was cold, and I remember once you hogged all the sheets and when I tried to grab them in the middle of the night, you kicked out one of your giant feet and knocked me square in the nose. Bled like hell." James carefully doesn't examine the fact that an accidental kick is nothing compared to purposeful asphyxiation, instead focussing on Steve's words. It doesn't sound like him- James- but it still makes his mouth quirk up again, trying to recall.

His mouth presses into a thin line when it brings up no memories, not like the couple dreams he had, murmuring, "I don't remember. I'm sorry I did that, though." After all, there's no use denying it- the truth is there, plain as can be. He was Bucky Barnes. At one point. He just doesn't know if that man is still there, buried underneath decades of smooth wipes and blood.

Steve's smile wavers for just a moment, but he shrugs, one corner of his mouth drawing up further. "I didn't expect you to. It just reminded me of that." They lapse into silence again, but it's comfortable. James, for his part, tries to memorize Steve's face as though it will unlock all the corner's of his icy mind, warm and crack at the frozen tundra.

He wants to commit Steve's smile, his eyes, his skin to memory, wants to make sure his brain knows that he isn't to hurt Steve Rogers, but it's difficult. In all honesty, even now there's the urge to grab a fork and stab it into Rogers' eyes, tear at his skin until his hands are covered in the blood of The Mission; wants to watch the light fade from too-blue eyes and rip handfuls of his hair bloody from his scalp. It's… Disorienting, to say the least, and he must look it, because Tony coughs, loudly, and James jerks his head into the man's direction, eyes wide.

"Wow, okay lovebirds. Can you do the eyefucking somewhere else?" Steve reaches over and smacks at Tony's arm, his ears turning a delectable shade of pink that makes James' breath get caught in his throat. He doesn't know why, just knows there's a warmth in his sternum that isn't caused by pain or drugs or Cold or handlers, caused by him looking at Steve. He doesn't even pretend to understand what Tony means.

"Knock it off, Tony. More important things to discuss. Like, for instance, the fact that Bu- James is here, with you and you pulled him off the streets." Steve turns to look at the Soldier, and he feels himself tense under the attention, automatically. "Was there anybody tracking you?"

"I… Sort of. The remaining handlers were searching for me, as well as some other Hydra forces." He swallows bitterly, remembering ducking from their glances and never looking back, holing up in that dingy apartment for a couple days as he tried to piece together his broken mind into a semblance of rational thought. His mouth twists into a bitter grimace, and he says, "They don't think I have the brain power to run away from them."

Tony looks at him for a moment, squinting his eyes before saying, "Are there tracking devices inside you?"

"No. I ripped them out as soon as I evaded them." James extends his right forearm, where a jagged newly-made scar sits raised and raw, the delicate sheen of brand new skin. Maybe the shower did do him good afterall. He feels much more coherent, much less fuzzy than he has before. He wonders if it's because of the light conversation- it's important, sure, but the other two are being so damned casual about it. He also wonders if it's Steve's presence.

"Good, that's goo-"

_"Sorry to interrupt, sirs, but Nick Fury is calling, demanding to get on the line with you."_ Jarvis' voice rings out, and James suppresses his flinch this time. He thinks he may be getting used to the avuncular AI.

Nick Fury. Director Nick Fury. He's supposed to be dead, is all James knows, but he's not sure… Not sure… He thinks he may have killed him, before the most recent wipe. It happens, sometimes. They'll wipe him, but impressions linger, after all, and the sense of deja vu coming from that man's name is eerie and unsettling. "I killed him." He murmurs numbly, turning his gaze down towards his clasped hands, thinking it through.

He's not guilty, and that makes him angry. He's not… Anything, really, and he knows he should. James doesn't feel the oncoming of a panic attack, and he realizes that Nick Fury must not have meant anything to him, the way that Steve and now Tony (feathery hair and a nice striped tie, babbling about the future in an excited voice) have infiltrated his chest. Steve glances at him for a moment, jaw clicking, but he says nothing, turning his gaze back to Tony.

"Can't you tell him I'm… Hiking, or something?" Stark's voice breaks out of his thoughts, and for some reason, his first instinct is to snort, mouth turning up into a smirk he wasn't expecting. Steve looks at him sharply, blue eyes widening and James averts his gaze, hands clasping under the table more tightly.

_"I really don't think he'll believe that."_

"Gah. Fine. Put him through on the speakers. Steve and James'll probably want to hear this if it's so urgent."

* * *

_Then I'm laying out my winter clothes_  
_And wishing I was gone_  
_Going home_  
_Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me_  
_Bleeding me, going home_

_In the clearing stands a boxer_  
_And a fighter by his trade_  
_And he carries the reminders_  
_Of ev'ry glove that layed him down_  
_Or cut him till he cried out_  
_In his anger and his shame_  
_"I am leaving, I am leaving"_  
_But the fighter still remains_

**Author's Notes**

Just as an FYI, in this !verse, I'm upholding the strict separation of the superheroes and the X-Men mutants. So the Wolverine reference is just as fictional to Tony Stark as he is to us. I've gotta keep my story verse separate in my head somehow. ;) Enjoy. Sorry this is a few hours late.


	7. Summer Part VII

**Bucky**

**I.**

_His blood is clotting and freezing as it leaks sluggishly out of his body, stark against the white snow of the field. His breath is coming out in strained puffs as he claps a hand to his shoulder, pain-wracked sobs leaving his body in clouds of white. He can feel the black spreading through his arm, black and thick and cutting off everything, everything. Mind a dull confused roar of pain._

_He knows, without looking, that something has cut deep into the shoulder. Maybe it's his bone, popped out of place, but regardless, the arm is useless and dying and hanging limp even though he's _left-handed_ damnit. How, how-_

_The white is blinding, sharp in his vision but the black is suffocating, a blanket over his brain, taking over the blood and the flesh with selfish bites._

_He's been laying in the snow for hours, days, months. Who knows, honestly. It's a blur of nightmarish pain, clouding over his head and his memories, so utterly present yet so utterly lost that he doesn't know which way is up, which way is down. Bucky grunts one last time before twisting his aching body around, on his hands and knees, holding himself up with his right arm. Everything is going so numb, numb, but the left arm is something he cannot feel, at all anymore, except for the stabs of pain._

_Pain bursts under his knees, the palms of his hands and fingers, and he knows the black will take them over too, until he's nothing but a frozen corpse with oil for blood and ice for a head._

_Bucky Barnes falls after only twenty yards of crawling, his muscles spasming and protesting. His body was simply not made to endure this, and honestly, if he could fight through the haze in his brain, he would realize his body is not made to endure any of what has happened. That he should be dead and broken on the ground._

_He wishes, he wishes he were dead. Wishes he didn't have to continue to sluggishly move forward as his body slowly gave up, shut down. A hacking cough overtakes him, something deep and sour as his lungs protest the cold air, and he vaguely wonders if this is what Steve felt like. A freezing body in the middle of a frozen tundra, trying to move forward and survive._

_Survive, damnit._

_Summer Brooklyn days float through his head slowly, as though in an attempt to warm him up. Sweaty skin and suffocating breaths, wet coughs and heated apartments. A stripped queen bed and soft caresses, breath tickling at his neck as Steve slumbers, wrapped around him._

_He lets one more sob escape his throat, but it's hoarse and quiet, right hand pounding on the ground with as much energy as he can muster. Bucky feels woozy, dizzy from the loss of the blood, from the ice in his brain, and he knows, knows that he will not make it to nightfall. That he will die here in the middle of Austria, a poor boy from Brooklyn with no purpose but to try to be good._

_He once told Steve that he was a good man at heart, but Bucky was just trying to do good. He knows there's a difference, and he holds onto that. The last second before he lets the blackness- a different blackness than the one moving up his arm like venom, but a blanket nonetheless- he hopes, hopes that Steve stays a good man. Because Bucky failed. He failed._

_His death will not be graceful, it will not serve a purpose. It just is, and at least he can die knowing he did good. He kept Steve safe, and he fought the good fight. It makes him smile._

_ooOoo_

_He's jostled awake when he's dragged through the snow, and he makes a mild protest, trying to wave his left arm up to slap whoever's doing this to him, but the arm is useless. Dead. The venom took it over and any remaining red, red is on the snow behind them now._

_Bucky is too weak to put up a fight as the men- because there's a group of them, he can hear their low voices all around (or maybe it's a hallucination)- get him set up onto the back of a truck. He doesn't even want to put up a fight when he's bundled with blankets and coats and hats, his head so numb and fuzzy (Maybe the blackness went there, there) that he just snuggles in further, warming up._

_"Ty slyshish' menya, soldata?" A gruff man with a mustache is bending low in front of him, his blue eyes cold as ice and mouth drawn into a severe line. Bucky does not like him, instinctually tries to claw away from him. He doesn't understand, he doesn't understand, his head is so fuzzy and full that he's going to explode and-_

_"Soldier? You are hearing me?" The man asks again in heavily accented English, mouth drawing further down in displeasure at having to use the language apparently. It's hard to make out his words, but Bucky nods, the movements loose and slow, still under the spell of crystalline white._

_"Having name?" The man asks, leaning in closer to the mound that is Bucky, a hand reaching to cup his jaw and lift up when he threatens to fall asleep again, right there and then. Bucky nods, again, forcing his frost-covered eyelids to flutter open at the man's request. After all, he saved him. The least he can do is help out._

_Besides, struggling will do no good. His left arm is still bleeding, and he knows he's lost too much, too much. He nods again, giving a soft smile. "Sergeant James Barnes, sir, bu' you can call me Bucky." He says it with as much cockiness as he can muster, and is rewarded with a harsh, unforgiving slap across his cheek. As out of it as he is, even Bucky knows that everyone around the truck has silenced themselves, the slap resounding across wherever they are._

_"Nyet. That is not your name." Bucky is pretty sure he can detect the faint hint of twisted pleasure in the man, but he can't be positive. In any ways, he doesn't want to be slapped again, doesn't want blood to rise to his cheeks when there's other parts of him that need it more. He's in so much pain, pain. He just nods, humming slightly and the man backs away from him, jabbering in Russian. Bucky lets him go, sliding his eyes closed and letting himself succumb to the mountain of warmth in an Austrian winter._

**Tony**

**II.**

"Are you harboring the goddamned Winter Soldier- who shot me to death, might I remind you- in your apartment?" Are the first words out of Fury's mouth and Tony has to suppress a sigh, suppress a groan, basically stop himself from being too dramatic altogether. Which is a feat in and of itself. He should be rewarded.

"No. Maybe. Yes. No." Tony rattles off, rolling his eyes to the ceiling as though expecting that to clear things up, and he hears Steve sigh heavily behind him. Barnes is looking stiff and tense in his seat, and Tony can't really blame him. "I am taking care of James Barnes, though, Fury."

There's silence on the other end for a second, and then the gruff baritone of Fury's voice rings back, "Right, because James Barnes is alive still. I gotcha. What a wonderful idea, St-"

"I'm sorry I shot you." Tony shoots his head over to pay more attention to Barnes, who isn't freaking out persay, but is sitting so stiff and straight that every minute tremor that runs through his body is obvious. His right hand is holding onto the table like a lifeline, the left pressing its thumb into the pads of the other fingers, a twitch for his own body.

"I-" Fury's voice cuts off for a moment, a sound like glass slamming down heard. Tony wants to giggle and tell Fury not to spill any precious liquor, a blasphemy, but even he can't muster up the energy to do so. "It's alright. Orders, right? We've all been fucked over by orders lately." It's weak, even with the force behind all of Fury's words, but James seems to relax somewhat, nodding to himself. "You even think of fucking over those boys, though, Barnes- You're Barnes, right?- and you'll be wishing you died."

Barnes is quiet for a moment, before he replies, "I know the feeling well, _sir._" The last bit is pulled down into a severe sarcastic pull, and Tony can just _imagine_ the italics. It's perhaps the first time James has put any emotion other than generic _sad, mad, content_ and it makes him snort out loud. Maybe he _does_ have a sense of humour, or sarcasm or something in him somewhere, actually.

"Anyways," Fury draws out, and Tony can just see the vein pulsing on his head, the one that was often his goal to get going. "I wasn't calling about Barnes, per say. I was mostly calling to let you know that I've gotten word that several Hydra cells are mobilizing to capture the 'Great Captain' and his party. I imagine they would also like to get their Soldier back."

Steve sucks in a heavy breath, and Tony just sighs. He notices, absently, that James has not responded, not really. In fact, he seems unsurprised and unfazed, though that _does_ seem to be his default expression.

"Where should we go then, Fury?" Steve pipes up, his voice strong and even, jaw ticking. Tony thinks that the captain maybe, perhaps, respects Fury, but also challenges the man, won't bow down to him. He gets that, really, he does. Sure, Rogers is way too stiff most of the time, but he seems to have a good head screwed on tight.

"Well, I suggest _not_ going to Stark towers. Or any of your other known 'safe houses.'" Tony is honestly surprised that Fury hasn't asked if this line is safe, isn't compromised, but the thought quickly leaves his mind in a surge of arrogance as he realizes that of _course_ Fury thought about it, but deemed it a stupid question. Of course it's a secure line. The only thing that could hack into it would be Jarvis, and well, that's a moot point. "I suggest you lie low for a while, maybe get some actual hiking done."

Tony snorts, leaning against the counter with practiced ease. "You can't be serious. Really? Roadtripping like a goddamned hippie?" And, wow. Those words actually left his mouth. He actually said words that sounded more like what a man Steve's age- albeit actually old- should be saying. Not Tony Stark, who's young at heart and wild and rambunctious.

"If you want to consider it that. Just a little warning. Fury out." The phone disconnects as suddenly as it was on, leaving the kitchen in semi-stunned silence.

Surprisingly, it's Barnes that speaks up first, his voice hesitant and unsure as he says, "We need to leave soon. I've been evading them for days." He turns, wringing his hands together, and Tony doesn't miss the puppy eyes that Steve gives him, the look of intense sorrow and longing not even pretending to hide behind a facade of something much more fair to Barnes.

Steve gives a low cough, looking away, but James shoots his gaze over to Rogers' at that, concern passing over his face and then being replaced with confusion, as though unsure of his reaction to that. And… Great, now they're staring at each other again. Seriously, he's dealt with fuck-eyes before, but this takes a brand new meaning to the term.

He doesn't blame them though, understands that for Steve, at least, this is the first time he's seen something from his home since waking up, and for Barnes… It's likely the only sense of deja ju running through his bones that feels good.

"Right. We'll leave in an hour, then? I for one, don't fancy having to blow up a bunch of Hydra cells, not yet. Soon, but not quite yet." He grabs and apple from the fridge and points it at Barnes, shooting his eyebrows up. "I'm packing shit. Don't set the apartment on fire."

James looks amused at that for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "Your apartment is completely safe. What is my next mission?"

Tony's smile falls off his mouth, but he covers it up by taking a rudely large bite of the apple, juice squirting everywhere. James wrinkles his nose in distaste, eyes following the droplets of juice falling to the floor as though he is going to get up from where he sits and mop the floor. Weird. "Get the clothes from the spare room packed up. And throw some boxed food in a bag." Is all he says, though, keeping his voice neutral.

The idea that James _needs_ orders, _needs_ a mission, is nothing short of unsettling to Tony. Tony, who doesn't take orders from anybody and will spit in the face of someone who even _tries_ to get him to be obedient, finds the entire ordeal sickening. From what little Steve has mentioned of Bucky in the past, the man was a cocky, confident sonuva bitch, strutting through the door and knowing intensely what he wanted. But this… Barnes perks up with renewed energy at something to do, taking another sip of his coffee before nodding, his face back to neutral.

"Yes, will do." He stands to move down the hallway, and Tony wonders if he's happy for the mission, or happy that the mission includes no blood, no murder. He's honestly not sure- James' expressions are locked tighter than Fort Knox.

Steve sighs, standing up as well, presumably to go help Barnes. Or just be a creep and watch him. It's not like the man has many belongings- just his shredded up Winter Soldier uniform and a couple pairs of pants, sweats and shirts that Tony was able to rustle up for him. "Hey, Steve."

"Yeah?" Rogers turns around, haggard eyes pressing into Tony's impatiently, and the genius is met with the reminder that Steve is almost ninety now, old, old old, and it shows. He may not have lived seventy of those years, but his face has the severe experience of someone from a different time and it's haunting, absolutely devastating.

He's reminded of the stories his father used to tell him- when his father _would_ talk to him- about the Captain America and all he stood for. His father always spoke about Steve Rogers with a quiet reverence, with melancholy in the room, and Tony always thought he could never live up to the stories of the blond man who represented all of America and her desires. The memory used to make him bitter, but he doesn't think it does anymore. If anything, it makes him feel warm that Steve Rogers made his father bearable, that his father wasn't just rambling on about ghosts.

"It could be good, a trip, you know." He taps a few quick things on his Starkphone to stop from having to stare into Steve's eyes further, but he can still feel the frown from the other man, feel the tension.

"Yeah. Maybe." Steve doesn't say anything else, just wanders down the hall, and Tony is left giving a small hum, leaving Stark to walk down into the lab he's been practically living in the past week, packing away enough objects to survive through Hydra's next plans. For once, he wasn't turning around to punch Hydra in the face- because that would be counterintuitive, considering their motto- but running, traversing away. It feels strange, but Tony instinctively knows that Barnes needs it, shouldn't face against his handlers so soon.

It's not as comforting a thought as it should be.

**Bucky**

**III.**

_The next time he wakes up, it is with a world-heavy blink of his eyes, a darkened hospital room floating up into his vision. He glances to his right and notices a couple drip-needles sticking out of the flesh, but when he looks to the left, he sees nothing. Which causes him to panic, twisting around to see… Nothing. No arm. It cuts off at the shoulder, something bandaged and fresh, obviously._

_He calms down, because it's obviously something that's being tended to. He isn't sure though. In fact, he's not sure of anything. A quick search through his memory reveals that no, no he can't think of anything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours. An even more disturbing thought is that he can't remember anything, period. Nothing. Not where he is, what he's going here. Who he is._

_That causes him to panic, flailing around to sit up, and there's a flurry of male nurses- technicians?- that rush to him, white coats and surgical masks making them seem blank, blank, so white and cold and he shivers despite himself. They push him down gently, speaking to him in a language he doesn't understand, and he voices his thoughts quite loudly, if a little disjointed from confusion and pain meds. "I don't… Who are you? Why am I… Here? Does anyone speak English? Oh god, where's my arm…?"_

_The nurses glance at each other before one of them hurries off, the other one keeping a firm hand on his non-bandaged shoulder, keeping him down on the bed. After a few moments of tense staring, another man steps into the room, thick mustache and severe mouth seeming familiar, familiar damnit, for reasons he doesn't know. A thick cigar hangs off his hand, smoke blowing lazily up through the room and causing it to stink, stink._

_It seems he doesn't know anything, now._

_"Soldier, you are awake!" The words and the way they're formed should make it sound cheerful, happy, but all it is is flat, excited in a clinical way. The man is in some sort of military uniform, high standings, and he wonders why he knows that. "Is very confusing, I know." Again, the words should have a good humour about them, but it's flat and unsympathetic, chilling him to the very core. "Now, a name I can call you by?"_

_He blinks, rapidly, fluttering his eyes as he tries to think, clenching the sheets close as he can with one arm, mouth opening and closing a few times before he murmurs out, "I… I don't know. I can't remember." For some reason, the mustached man looks intensely pleased at that, and he's surprised the man doesn't just clap his hands and get over with it._

_"Well, Soldier. We will get you healed. Then, you are having training." With that, the man grins, but it's more a baring of teeth. A shark's grin or a tiger's pulling back of its lips, all teeth and no mirth, just pure and utter ecstasy in the face of a power rush. He shivers, lying back on the bed with huff._

_"Wait, I-"_

_And the man twists around, stalking in close to him, the shark's grin still firmly in place. With one wry twist of his lips he stabs the cigar down onto his cheek, pressing in until it burns, burns and he's shaking and trying to get it out of his grip, but the nurses are restraining him for some reason, letting this man harm him. He can feel the skin singing, the burning going deep to his core (at least it's not cold, cold cold), can hear it, for God's sake._

_God, he can't breathe, sucking in shallow breaths even as his cheek burns away. This burn doesn't hurt as bad as the languid black of before- but he doesn't really remember that, can only get images of it in his head, of blood and black and white- but it's still shocking, a different sort of pain that he's not used to._

_The man leans in close, and his breath is cloying, tasting of tobacco as he breaths, "You will not talk back to me, ever, Soldier. Address me only as 'sir.' I do not tolerate the talking back." And then he's gone, gliding quickly out of the room, leaving the man with no memory shaking and shivering on the bed, trying not to think about the burn on his cheek._

_Soldier. The man called him Soldier. He wonders if that was true. He sure doesn't feel like a soldier; he feels fragile and thin, like one wrong step on the winter pond could crack and break his entire surface, expel all the water to the outside world. They must have put something in the bags connected to his arm, because he feels himself fall asleep, even though he feels like he's been sleeping for twenty years. Maybe he has. It's not like he has any memory to go off of._

_He doesn't know anything, anymore._

* * *

_If you should go skating_  
_On the thin ice of modern life_  
_Dragging behind you the silent reproach_  
_Of a million tear stained eyes_  
_Don't be surprised, when a crack in the ice_  
_Appears under your feet_  
_You slip out of your depth and out of your mind_  
_With your fear flowing out behind you_  
_As you claw the thin ice_


	8. Summer Part VIII

**Steve**

**I.**

By the time the three of them are ready, the full hour has been used. Well, to be fair, both Steve and James had been finished within twenty minutes, Steve already packed from earlier that day and James not really having anything to pack, except for the food that Tony asked him to. The hour is just coming after noon, so the sun is high in the sky, no clouds in sight. It's honestly, a beautiful day to start a cross-country road trip, the light near-fall breeze fluttering and the sky blue as could possibly be.

The fact that they're being forced out of the only homes they know is infuriating, and Steve wishes, just wishes for one of the HYDRA cells to show up, just so he could pound them into the asphalt, unleash some of the anger that's pooling and curling in his gut onto someone that deserves it. He knows the anger probably isn't good for him- Dr. Banner is testament to that fact- but he can't help it, not where Bucky's involved.

_("My god, Steve, just leave it be. Not everything has to be a damn fist-fight.")_

It takes some persuasion, but Bu- James, now, James- is convinced to go into the small but decadent RV, his shoulders stiff and tense and his face drawn to a neutral passivity. He'd tried arguing, obviously uncomfortable, and it's painful for Steve to see, but he clamps down on his instincts to hold and comfort James, to leave him be. It was a physical jab of an ache to Steve's heart when he had to order James to get on the damned trailer, James and the man had obeyed instantly. So, it wasn't really convincing so much as taking advantage of his fucked mind.

"Baby may be small, but I have her packed to her core with delicious tech, don't you worry." Tony announces as he steps lightly into the vehicle, a grin spread across his face, Ray-Ban's covering his eyes with wealth. Steve takes the excuse to go put everyone's bags in the back of the compartment in a closet, trying to forget the way James had stiffened the more he stepped in. Tony gets the RV started but doesn't even bother sitting in the driver's seat, instead coming to the back where there's a small but hardy table and cushions not unlike a diner's. "Did you pack good food, James?"

James shrugs, eyes dancing around the RV to catalogue any threats, all exits. It should look paranoid, but it doesn't, just looks natural and second-nature to him. Steve's heart shutters for a moment, but he ignores it, instead sitting heavily in the couch across from the table. James continues to stand awkwardly near the door, eyes finally landing on Steve's, eyebrows knitting together. "I took… Non-perishables. I don't know much about food." And yeah, Steve's not going to examine that. He steps forward and hands Tony a canvas bag, which causes Stark to snort into laughter, throwing the bag down heavily at the table as he drapes himself over the cushioned seat. Stark ignores the way James flinches at the sudden noise.

"Cans of beans and soup? Really. I meant junk food, Terminator." Tony gives a dramatic sigh, rooting through the bag and rolling his eyes at, perhaps, literally every single thing that James threw together.

James' eyes widen in fear, his hands wringing together behind his back, and Steve can see minute shivers running through his body. "Did I… Fail?" He asks slowly, voice halting and unsure, jaw ticking uncomfortably. The metal arm keeps twitching, but other than that, he stands stock still.

Steve glares at Tony, saying, "You're fine, James. Tony is just rude."

"Hey, am not! Sorry I don't want to eat… Refried beans on a road trip!" The millionaire protests, shaking the can in disgust. "We're rich Americans on a road trip, not homeless on a train!"

"I- I will go procure better food. I apologize." James says, reaching forward to grab the back from the table and turning to step off the RV, movements jerky and interspersed with random jitters. He looks ill in the face of his 'failure,' and Steve glares heatedly at Tony for ruining the small amount of calm that he's managed to get into Bucky's system.

"No, no you don't have to- James!" Steve shouts after him, but the man is already on the street again, moving with quick agile purpose. He stops in his tracks when Steve's voice registers in his ears, cocking his head and looking through the windows to raise a brow. Steve sighs and steps to the entrance of the RV, pursing his lips. "Don't listen to Tony. He's an idiot. We'll get more food later."

James shrugs again, but nods, stepping back onto the vehicle with only a small hint of the earlier trepidation. "I failed, though." His voice is so, so flat, as though he expects to be beaten for his mistakes, expects for more training but doesn't want anyone to know he expects it.

Steve sees Tony take in a sharp intake of breath, clucking his tongue. "Nevermind that. Forget what I said. New mission- Have fun and relax." Stark himself leans back on the cushion, tapping away on his phone before shouting, "Jarvis! Start driving." From what Steve garnered from the rant that Tony gave on the way out of the apartment, he'd programmed a few set locations that the AI was able to autopilot without anyone needing to actually drive.

In fact, somehow, in that hour of packing, not only did Tony manage to get three suitcases filled to the brim with materialistic _stuff_, but he also managed to get the security to amp up on his company while he's away, to get as much of it running as smoothly as possible. Steve assumes that was by calling Pepper and giving her every duty, but he wouldn't dream of saying so to Stark's face, for fear of another one of his rants about how 'he can be fiscally responsible.' He also managed to put a lock-down on any more sensitive information regarding 'Codename: Winter Soldier' being leaked along with the rest of SHIELD's information. Of course, that said nothing to what was already released and what the media already knew from footage of the DC fallout, but it helped.

James' back straightens, automatically seeming to catalogue the new 'mission,' but his brow furrows again in confusion. He doesn't say anything though, and Steve suddenly thinks that perhaps he wasn't allowed to ask question, before. It's going to be a long road ahead of them, both metaphorically and literally.

He sits on the couch, the opposite end that Steve has settled himself back into, and stares at the opposite wall, apparently content to just sit. The car lurches into movement and James braces himself by stabbing his metal hand- covered in a black leather glove- onto the armrest, which actually starts to rip a little under the force of his grip.

Tony sighs and stares at James from under his sunglasses, before he chuckles in amusement, rolling his eyes. "RV's not gonna kill you, Robocop. Music, Jarvis, musica!" The radio switches back and forth for a few moments, before landing on a classic rock station, and Steve can only be glad that Jarvis doesn't blast the Led Zeppelin, if only for James' sake (and his too, if he's being honest).

"I'm not-" James starts, but doesn't finish, falling quiet again. Steve sighs, and suddenly wishes he invited Natasha and Sam to come along, instead of Stark, if this is how the trip is going to go. He flips open a book and leans back, trying to lose himself to one of Stark's 'must-reads,' about some fictional wizard.

**Bucky**

**II.**

_He's at a baseball game. He remembers baseball, vaguely, but it's like he remembers everything- behind a veil, knowing but feeling disconnected. It always feels like the memory is happening to someone else. But it's baseball, and his lips are stretched across his face in a smile, sound bubbling from his mouth that must be laughter borne from amusement. He feels… Happy. Maybe this is what Stark meant, when he gave him that Mission._

_The pitcher gets ready on his mound, tossing the ball up a few times before he suddenly springs forward, expertly throwing the baseball with a precision that even the Soldier can appreciate. He feels his own body twist and get ready to hit the ball with the large club- the bat- but then decides last minute that the ball didn't fit the exact parameters. He steps back and spits into the dry dirt, twisting his grip on the bat._

_"Ball!" A man behind him shouts, and though the Solider wants to flinch, wants to spin and pin the threat to the nearest wall, Bucky does not, that laugh bubbling from deep in his chest again. He feels light and warm, and he's not used to that feeling, not one bit. It feels good. He wonders where Steve is._

_"Yeah fuckin' right, Milton!" The Soldier shouts, grinning from ear to ear in a way he has long since forgotten how to do. But… He's not the Solder, not in this dream. No, this is Bucky. "'S that the best you got?" He feels himself jump backwards when another ball comes rushing to the homebase, but he covers up the jump by squaring his shoulders and swinging at the oncoming ball with two flesh arms, the resounding 'crack!' something that would make the Soldier question about gunshots, but just makes himself grin in this weird version of reality, dropping the bat and running, fast as he can, to another base._

_It's liberating, to run with a goal in mind but without any danger involved, wind rushing at his ears as he passes the first base and twists to run towards the second, the other men on the field hurriedly trying to stop him, but his hit was golden, wonderfully perfect and there's no stopping him. He hears a shout from the sidelines, where Steve is sketching in his ever-present sketchbook, a boisterous sound of, "Yeah! Kill 'em, Bucky!"_

_He grins and laughs, twists to go to third base and-_

_And-_

_"Kak tebya zovut?"_

_He shivers on the table, whispering pleas and begging like a goddamned dog, sweat dripping down his forehead. He's filthy, can smell himself, but he also smells burned, burned, and his head is so fuzzy, so numb and he's confused and full of pain. He twists and begs even more fervently as the technician pushes another button and there's a electric shock running through his body, making him jerk and shudder and scream, always screaming in pain. "I- I… Stop, stop please stop-"-_

_"Woo! No, watch out Bucky, they're gainin!'"_

_One of the boys has grabbed the ball and is running after him, practically nipping at his heals, and Bucky's grin just grows wider in the anticipation, in the challenge, his long-lean legs trying to pump faster, muscles aching. He skids to a halt when he makes it across home plate, a full diamond completed, and he lets out a wallop of noise, does a small jig full of limbs and movement as Steve yells "Yes! Bucky! Bucky!"-_

_Which turns into a whimper when the electrodes stop, when the screams subside because he knows there's more coming. There's always more coming._

_"Kak tebya zovut?"_

_He doesn't answer, tries to get his breathing back to normal. He tries to think through the answer to the question, because he knows those words now, knows what they mean. He knows English, and he knows German and he knows Russian but he can't remember where he learned the German and the English is fading fast. The Russian, he knows, is new, but he doesn't know why._

_"Kak tebya zovut?" The sound is sharper this time, and it makes him shudder because the white-coats are even more painful when they're displeased._

_"I DON'T KNOW!" He screams, just wanting it to end, wanting to be able to go back to sleep. He doesn't want to train anymore, doesn't want it, doesn't want it, doesn't want it. But he also doesn't want the mustached man to come back into the room, either, so he wills his voice quieter, shivering when the technician's finger goes near the button to will him into submission again. He sucks in a deep breath, eyes wide as he whispers, "Kodovoye nazvaniye : Zima Soldat."_

_The technician smiles thinly, happy, but he presses the button again, and again, and again because of how unsure he sounds, and then he lets men in black come into the room and beat him, beat him, beat him, beat him until he forgets he should even have a name, until his codename is all he remembers. Then the white-coats let the men in black come in again and beat him, beat him, beat hi-_

**III.**

James jerks awake, breaths quickened and shallow, and he tries to jump up, to assess the situation. He stops, immediately, when he feels the press of strong fingers in his hair, stroking lightly through as though the Soldier were not an asset, a weapon, but an actual human being who deserves comfort. For a moment, he thinks it's a threat and that he's about to get his hair torn from his scalp, bloody, just like he's done before, that he's going to die. The movements are soft and gentle, though, not desperate and painful like they should be, so he discards around fifteen ways he could be dead by now.

He scrunches his nose and murmurs, "_Chto ty delayesh' ? Yavlyayetsya li eto chast'yu tseli ? Pozhaluysta …"_ The fingers still for a moment, before moving again, slower and even more gentle, the body connected to them shifting to get more comfortable..

"Shh. You're safe." He hears, and the Soldier moves his head, looking up at Steve, because of course it's Steve, with barely contained shock. Blond, blond hair and blue, blue eyes. He thinks Steve's presence certainly sounds blue, but he's not sure what that means. He might just be drowsy; The Soldier is not used to sleeping normally.

He's just happy he hasn't tried to kill him again.

The Soldier notices that he's laying across the couch, his head on Steve's lap. The couch has been pulled out into a decently-sized bed, and the mattress is much, much too soft under his body. He does not know, for the life of him, how he got there. But, it's not like he isn't used to having holes in his memory, so he ignores it, trying to sit up. The captain is sitting up against the wall, legs kicked out in front, and the Soldier has sprawled himself awkwardly along the entire thing. Steve stops him, lightly pressing at his head. It should be a threat, should be something that the Soldier immediately tries to escape, but it feels comforting, somehow. Warm.

He's not sure how he allowed himself to sleep so heavily in the presence of others, but he doesn't have memory of sleeping in his head, at all. If he went on any long-range missions that involved his handlers telling him to sleep, they burned them from his mind.

Reality slams back down, cold and hard, over his mind and he shivers despite the warmth. Forces himself to remember the long, quiet drive the three of them had made, going at a slow, leisurely pace. Remembers the loud, cloying music in the background that had been nothing more than sounds to him. Remembers the brilliant sunset as the three of them sat outside in the fading September heat and forced him to eat again, the red of the sun dipping below the horizon.

"Stay. You're safe, James." Steve murmurs now, and James nods, slowly, subconsciously leaning into every touch that Steve gives him, every press of fingers. He didn't know touch could be without pain, without expectation of some deed, not really. It's quiet for a moment, except for light snoring from a pull out bed at the end of the RV, where Stark must be sleeping, before Steve whispers, "Was it a memory?"

James stills, trying to calm his breathing, before he replies, "Da… Yes." He should be stiffening, ready to attack anything that dares threaten him, but he's so comfortable, and warm, and he's never been any of those things. Maybe… Maybe Stark's mission for him won't be that hard to accomplish after all. Well, if he could get rid of the acidic nausea from his dreams. "But. They are painful. Ya ne lyublyu ikh." It is an admission of weakness, but the Soldier intimately understands that Steve is okay to trust.

"Yeah. I know. I get them, too." One of Steve's thumbs reaches down to swipe across James' cheek, ignoring the Soldier's flinch. There's the movement of water across his face. James didn't know he had been crying again, sobbing once more. At least he didn't wake up screaming, like the night before.

Steve is quiet, though, and James is grateful. He's not pushing, but letting the words and what he wants to say come to the forefront of the Soldier's mind first.

"I don't- I remember some things. I knew you. It's so hazy, Steve." He rolls his head, pressing further into Steve's lap, feeling more relaxed than he normally is, more comfortable with himself. He wonders if it's because of the memory of Bucky Barnes laughing as he ran, before his memories- the Winter Soldier's- sullied that idea. "I know I trust you. I know you're a punk."

The fingers still again, and he twists to look up at Steve, whose mouth is slightly open, blue eyes blinking. It's dark, too dark for them to logically be able to see any detail, but they're both super soldiers now. They can do things normal men cannot. The good Captain hums, then murmurs, "And you're a jerk. You'll remember, I know you will."

James twists out of Steve's fingers, sitting up on the couch. He's still close enough that he can feel the unnatural amount of heat that Steve emits like a furnace, but far enough away that he makes it clear that he doesn't want to be touched. Despite that, he leans forward, just a little, and breaths out, "I don't want to remember what I did."

He thinks that he's not Bucky Barnes, and he's not the Winter Soldier. If he was Bucky Barnes, he would be human, but he doesn't feel completely human, not yet. Maybe one day. If he was the Winter Soldier, he wouldn't care if he remembered all of his murders, all of his hits and missions. It would be easiest if he was the Winter Soldier, unfeeling weapon of whoever wields him.

"That wasn't your fault, Buck." Steve replies, raising a solid hand to rest on James' cheek, the warmth emanating from it from it making the Soldier lean forward, pressing into the touch for just a moment. He doesn't know why, why he wants to be closer to Steve, to his Mission, but he does. Steve promises no pain, no orders, and it's terrifying and horrifying and… And something he wants. Wants.

He leans back, standing up away from Steve and his warm touches, from his promises and his memories of a dead man. "What time is it?" He asks, making his voice even and level.

"Um. Almost three." Steve looks disappointed that he's stepped away, but James can't, he can't…

"I'll keep watch until the morning."

"What? James, you need to sleep."

"I already did." He moves to sit at the table, stiff and straight. He reaches into his pants- a pair of black cargo pants he found hidden in a drawer at Stark's apartment- and lays the SIG-Sauer pistol out, in easy reach. He hadn't gotten rid of all his weapons, hadn't given Stark all his means of defense. He wasn't, actually, an idiot.

"Come to sleep."

James flicks his head over to Steve again, eyes going blank at the order. His instincts claw at him to obey Steve's words, but his other instincts tell him he needs to keep watch, that to sleep would be a weakness. He ignores both, and decides he _wants_ to stay awake, not because of programming, but because he doesn't want to see painful stabs of memories behind his eyelids again.

He's half expecting to be punished, to be dragged forcefully from the RV by men in black and be prodded by men in white when he says, "I don't want to." He does not flinch, does not move other than to pick up the Sauer again and dismantle it, expertly taking it apart and putting it back together.

Maybe it's the way he says it, but Steve stares at him for a moment, from the couch, and in a surprising amount of trust, he just lays back on one side and spreads out, waving a hand to the air. "Whatever. I'm too tired to argue." James gives a sharp nod to show he's heard, but says nothing else, just yawns and murmurs, "Night', Buck."

The Soldier blinks, and- _he's wrapped around Steve's small frame, murmuring into his ear before leaning to press a kiss to the blond's soft neck, mumbling-_ "Night, Steve. Try not to let old Ms. Stein hear you coughing in the night." He doesn't know what he's saying, just letting his mouth form the words as he remembers it.

There's a weak chuckle from the couch, and Steve relaxes even further, blue eyes staring at James' figure in utter pleasure. It's not the twisted pleasure of his handlers whenever the Soldier did something right, but something warm that he can practically feel, reminding him of those fingers running through his scalp. "Ain't no more coughing left in me."

The Soldier puts his gun down, twisting to look at Steve. He cocks his head, examining him. Steve looks… Hopeful, a smile dancing on his face, and James feels a sudden pang that this isn't what Steve thinks it is. He thinks he's remembered, thinks he's Bucky, but the Soldier just got one wayward memory and responded as such. There's a low ache in his sternum, and he idly wonders if the food from earlier was poisoned. But… No. It's connected to emotions. He doesn't… want… to crush Steve's hopes.

He sort of wants to remember, too. _"Vospominaniya pilit' glubzhe, chem ikh nozhami."_

"What?"

"Nothing. I will sleep soon, as you wish. Thank you, Steve." He's proud, he really is. Look at those manners. Maybe the Soldier _is_ remembering. Maybe he isn't just a dog that's been loosed on its leash, left to wander in mindless fear. He remembers humanity, however vague and warped his catacomb-addled brain has made it. He isn't just a weapon, isn't just a soldier. Isn't just a sum of his parts.

James counts that as 'progress' and nods to himself, turning away as Steve closes his eyes and smiles, his breathing evening out. He pushes the gun away and sits for another half an hour, thinking idly to himself without moving a muscle, eyes trained on the door, running through the bits and snippets of his life, of his lives, over and over again. None of them make sense, but he finds he much prefers the memories and knowledge that Bucky Barnes gives him.

It's just edging on five-thirty when he stands up lightly, softly padding over to the pull out couch and perching on the side that Steve is not on. James lays down slowly, careful not to disturb the captain and stares up at the ceiling, his metal arm flexing as he decides what to do. He needs to trust Steve. Trust him because his brain is telling him to. He huffs out a breath, and a suspicious voice in his head tells him to _not be a sissy and just lay down with him_, so he does, snuggling into the hard lines of Steve's back, nosing his face into the crook between his shoulder and neck, breathing in.

James falls asleep faster than he has since the ice, the warmth of Steve's natural metabolism spreading all around him, and he doesn't dream for the rest of the night.

* * *

_You that never done nothin'_

_But build to destroy_  
_You play with my world_  
_Like it's your little toy_  
_You put a gun in my hand_  
_And you hide from my eyes_  
_And you turn and run farther_  
_When the fast bullets fly._

_You fasten all the triggers_  
_For the others to fire_  
_Then you set back and watch_  
_When the death count gets higher_  
_You hide in your mansion'_  
_As young people's blood_  
_Flows out of their bodies_  
_And is buried in the mud._

_-Masters of War, Bob Dylan_

* * *

**Author's Notes**

_My super phonetic Russian_

_"Kak tebya zovut?"_- What is your name?  
_Kodovoye nazvaniye : Zima Soldat: _ Codename: Winter Soldier  
_Chto ty delayesh' ? Yavlyayetsya li eto chast'yu tseli ? Pozhaluysta_: What are you doing? Is that part of the mission? Please...  
_"Vospominaniya pilit' glubzhe, chem ikh nozhami.":_ The memories cut deeper than their knives.


	9. Summer Part IX

_Yes, you've long been on the open road_  
_You've been sleeping in the rain_  
_From dirty words and muddy cells_  
_Your clothes are smeared and stained_  
_But the dirty words, the muddy cells,_  
_They'll soon be judged insane_  
_So only stop to rest yourself_  
_'til you are off again._

_So take off your thirsty boots_  
_and stay for a while,_  
_Your feet are hot and weary,_  
_from a dusty mile,_  
_And maybe I can make you laugh,_  
_maybe I can try,_  
_I'm just looking for the evening,_  
_the morning in your eye._

_-Thirsty Boots, Eric Anderson_

**I.**

_The road is long and winding and full of lush summer blooms but the Winter Soldier is not paying attention to any of the flowers, any of the pretty trivialities that are a sign of weakness. He does pay attention to the road, mind mechanically calculating the curve and angle, the terrain, the wind. Everything and anything that could potentially compromise the objectives. _

_The road itself is not only long and curved, but is situated on what could only be considered a cliff, the sort seen often on Colorado mountains. The sandy road occasionally spews up a wind of dry dirt, whisking around haphazardly with no purpose before settling again. The flowers are intermingled with shrubs of sage and goosefoot. The road should be a place of wonder, a shining example of the gorgeous terrain America offers, but all he sees is the mission, the objective. There is no room for thought._

_He is lying in wait in an outcropping of bushes a thousand yards back, only seeing any details of the road through the scope of his rifle. The Winter Soldier does not shift or move to get comfortable, only adjusts his position to be in the best, most tactical position necessary. He has been laying on his stomach, rifle ready, for two hours already. At the first sound of a car, still several hundred yards from passing the turn that would put them in sight of the Soldier, he wills his body to relax in the practiced, necessary way that all snipers know of. _

_The Soldier blows a wisp of hair out of his face- if the Soldier weren't focussed on his task, he'd wonder why his handlers haven't cut it yet, considering it's almost down to his jawline- and steadies the metal fingers wrapped around the trigger, evening his breath. _

_It's some flashy firebird, bright red with large wings that can hold no conceivable advantage beyond aesthetic design, but that isn't what the Soldier pays attention to. No, his gaze shoots solely to the man and woman inside the vehicle. The woman is wearing dark cat-eyed glasses and a snarky smirk on her face, and she shoots her head back in laughter at something the man says. The man has feathery hair and a cocky smile, and though it's too far away to see details, the Soldier suddenly knows that he has a strange little mustache that quirks up when he smiles and a mad twinkle in his eyes whenever he says something smart._

_The Winter Soldier should not know this information. He has never met the man or woman in the car, but he files through the information in his head anyways, just to make sure and is met with the familiar nothingness, nothing beyond the instructions he was given._

Mission Objectives: Howard and Maria Stark. To be terminated within thirty-six hours. To be seen as an accident in the eyes of the media.

_He has no other information on the two people. He was given weapons and drop-off and told to meet at the extraction point within thirty-six hours. No pictures, just one string of commands. It doesn't matter, though, that the Soldier seems to know the man, because he has his orders and he must carry them out._

_His momentary panic has subsided and lasted a mere two seconds as he clicked through his orders. He lines the shot, and instead of a clean shot to the head- from here, the Soldier could black clean through Howard Stark's skull and through Maria's, the very epitome of two birds one stone- but it must look like an accident. _

_The car rumbles down the road with confident ease, the purr of an engine that many would consider attractive. The Soldier lines up his shot, calculating the wind and movement that the bullet would have to pass through before taking an even breath and releasing his trigger on the downfall, twisting the gun a fraction of an inch immediately afterwards and pulling the trigger again. _

_Two bullets smash themselves cleanly into the two left-side tires, the rubber and air exploding into movement as the car careens to the side of the cliff. Stark is an excellent driver, but the Soldier takes one more shot that moves right past his ear. It's not meant to touch him- for if it did, it would have- but it catches Stark's attention and he loses whatever precarious control of the vehicle that he had, and the car tumbles down the side of the cliff, squealing tires and Maria's screams piercing through the pleasantly-warm Colorado day._

_The Soldier does not need to check if they are dead, because it is not his job to do so. He is the weapon that destroys them, he isn't the one that follows up on the misdeeds. He wondered, long ago, before the last wipe, if that made him a machine, but even that is gone from his head now. It doesn't matter, it does not pertain to the objectives._

_He packs away his gun and equipment, and can't help the stab of… Something… Shoot through him at the thought of the man- Howard Stark- lying dead in a gully, broken and bloody. It doesn't… Make sense, this emotion, because a weapon does not feel, but it comes from the same spot in his head that made him know what Stark's eyes look like. His face twitches, and he leaves the cliff as soon as he can, screams and guns and cars long since faded to leave nothing but bright summer colours and dry Colorado heat._

_When he makes it to his extraction point, he is too hesitant in his mission update, and spaces out at the image of a man bent low over a table, pointing to a map with strategic mirth in his eyes. His handlers have to ask the Soldier three times if the mission is a confirmed kill, finally getting through his head and he nods. He is not allowed to like or dislike, but he thinks that he dislikes the white-coats. He thinks he dislikes the suits even worse._

_Something cracks in him at the memory, though, and he's flighty and jittery when they come near him. He hasn't been like this in several years._

_One of them leans in close and asks, "Did you know Stark?" and for the first time that he can remember, he actively does not answer his handler, his master, just flicks his eyes away as he lays back down in the chair they put him in, hair hanging limply in his face._

_The handler repeats himself, and he nods, slowly, because he already didn't answer once and will be punished, and a second time would only be folly. The white-coats and suits alike look at him with trepidation- The Soldier does not know why, for it is him they control, not the other way around- before a now-familiar voice calls out, "Wipe him," and he can only sigh in relief, in happiness that his fears and doubts and confusion will melt away with electrical burns and searing cold, and though he screams- he always screams, even when it's not out loud- it's nothing but relief that curls through him as the memories of the mission leave._

_He does not remember a warm Colorado summer with flowers and sage floating in the breeze, green and dusty and a shining example of the beauty of America._

**Bucky**

**II.**

Bucky wakes with his body flush against the hard lines of Steve's body, the man's radiator body making him press closer, breathing out a sigh of content. It's not Brooklyn, because Steve is large and muscled and isn't wheezing. It's just like the hundreds of times when they'd slept together to keep warm in Germany, the cold ground beneath the tent making their backs ache, but their hearts were light at the chance to sleep near each other. Except… They're in a bed, something much more comfortable than frozen forest floors.

He shrugs it off and decides to enjoy the morning before he has to get up and suit up, a day of walking and marching to HYDRA bases. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, he always says, and this is _no _exception. There's sunlight filtering in through one of the windows, brilliant dawn light that's shining and already getting warm which… Well, he's not in a tent, apparently, but his head's a bit fuzzy so he ignores it. He wriggles up closer to Steve, pressing a kiss of his lips into his neck and smiling at the responding shuffle to get closer to Bucky. "Mornin,' Stevie." Bucky murmurs, wrapping an arm around the blond with no hesitation, limbs feeling loose and languid in the first time in… Well, a long time.

Sure, he doesn't know where he's at right now, but it's not like that doesn't happen. Not like he doesn't space out sometimes, after what happened, but… No. No, not thinking about that first thing in the morning, thank you very much. He shifts, sitting up so he can look at Steve, smiling at the light that filters onto the man's already golden hair like a halo. He might deny it, Steve, but Bucky knows when someone is beautiful. And Bucky has found Steve beautiful since they were kids and he was just some snot-nosed brat with a big mouth and over-eager fists. Steve huffs at the lack of contact, grumbling out a "Mornin,' get back here…," before blinking open his eyes and turning, looking at Bucky.

Steve freezes when he lands on Bucky's figure, blinking rapidly. Hope fills his eyes for some reason, and there's a piercing look of sadness in his eyes that Bucky can't translate, doesn't understand, and really where are they, why are they here and not a tent, and why is it warm when the last thing he remembers is cold, cold cold, and-

A phone rings in the back of the RV and Bucky jumps up like a cat, poised to attack, and there's a gun in his hand and he doesn't understand where he learned those reflexes, doesn't know, doesn't know and-

"'Lo?" Stark sits up in his bed, and the cool, cool clamps of reality hit the Soldier in the face, scraps of memory fading fast, Germany disappearing and the memory of Steve pressed against him gone in an instant. He can't remember, again, but that's okay, he's used to having blank spots in his head. His back straightens, the carefree smile dropping off his face in a moment, flexing his metal arm to work through the joints.

"Yes, _yes _Pepper. We're _fine. _No, no one's dead." Stark grumbles as he shuffles on the bed, his feathery hair standing up straight and wild, eyes bloodshot where he rubs a palm across them. "Guh, we're about thirty miles out of Roanoke. Nah, not any plans- What? Fine. Goodbye. _No, _I haven't had any coffee. _Bye._" He disconnects and throws his phone down heavily on the bed, sighing.

Steve has completely ignored Tony's phone call, and is instead looking at the Soldier with such an earnest expression that James has to look away. He doesn't want to crush Steve's hopes, doesn't want to explain that whatever memories, whatever state he was in a few moments ago, has disappeared as the cold clamps of the Winter Soldier tried to take over again.

"Buck?" Steve asks quietly, shuffling to sit up better, staring at the Soldier with such hopeful, such eagerness, and James can't… He now understands why his handlers would weed out any compassion in him, because it is a _weakness_, it is not an advantage to care about anything, least of all the man that was his mission and the son of another mission.

"No. Sorry, Steve." James turns and feels a stab of awkwardness, which he doesn't, he just doesn't feel, and it makes him want to go hide. He turns to Stark instead, shoving his metal hand into his pocket because of lack of anything to do. Which is… Strange. He has never before felt the need to fill up the space of time, content to wait until his mission demanded action. But he's… Fidgety. The moment his eyes land on Stark's eyes, he flinches violently, flesh hand clenching his metal as though afraid of something.

"Whoa, are you okay? Did I go full Chuck Norris on you in your dream or something?" Tony asks, and though the reference is lost on James, he shakes his head jerkily, his breath quickening and growing shallow. His gaze fades out as he relives the memories of Howard Stark's death, how empty he felt through the entire ordeal even though he had… Had… Murdered his friend. Murdered without any consideration, just to carry out his orders.

Steve steps closer to him warily, as though trying to placate a wild animal, holding up his hands to show that he's unarmed. "Hey, hey… It's fine. Nothing's going to happen. You're in an RV with Tony and me, you're not… Wherever you were. Come back, Buck…" His voice grows desperate at the end and that's when James' eyes flick towards him, present once more, taking in a shuddering breath.

"I…" He looks over to Tony, face crumpling. "Your father did not die accidentally." Is that he can choke out before he's rushing out of the RV and outside. They had parked on an empty field the night before, after Jarvis explicitly confirmed that no one owned the land, and James collapses onto the grassy plain as his stomach heaves anything that was in it out of his system, the sound of birds and nature drowned out by his puking.

He notices, about five minutes later, when he's just breathing heavily, crouched over himself, that both Steve and Tony have come outside, though they both stand a little ways away, closer to the RV than him. The Soldier- Well, no, he's no soldier anymore, not if he's blanching at his job- is grateful. He's not sure how he would react if they came over near him.

James sits heavily on the ground, face in his hands as he tries to get over the rest of his… Well, what was that? "Done panicking?" Stark calls out and yes, that word is definitely apt. James stands up shakily and turns, noticing the pale look in Stark's face behind all the fake bravado and swagger.

He nods wordlessly and steps lightly over to the two of them. Steve looks like he wants to embrace and smother James in blankets, and Tony looks like he's about to ask ten thousand questions, his back straight and stiff. James hates that even now, when he was shaking and nearly crying in anxiety and guilt, that he sees the weaknesses in others first, the places that he could apply pressure to kill.

Tony looks at him for a moment, pursing his lips, before he runs a hand through his hair, trying to calm the wayward raven-tufts. He sighs, nodding sharply, and James is, once again, grateful for his next words. "We're talking about this later. Let's get out of fucking West Virginia, first. Breakfast is cereal, since you seem to have remembered to bring _that_ at least."

* * *

_If I had a tale that I could tell you_

_I'd tell a tale sure to make you smile_

_If I had a wish that I could wish for you_

_I'd make a wish for sunshine all the while_

_-Sunshine on My Shoulder, John Denver_

* * *

**Author's Notes**

I would have updated sooner, but I decided to get drunk on Easter-Eve and told myself explicitly that drunk-writing was out of the question. So really, you should thank me for deciding not to sully my story anymore. ;) But yes... I'm sorry this update is so small. We're nearing the end of our first part, and I'm likely going to have to write a monster of an update for Summer Part X. Ten parts for each, is what I'm thinking. I just have to figure out how to end our momentous summer months, hmm? Raise a toast for the pagans and the christians and fertility, hmm?

Also, I'm looking to RP with someone? Anyone want to drop by, shoot me an email at murderingmoriarty or my Tumblr, springbucky. Thanks and love.


	10. Summer Part X

**Tony**

**I. **

He's not sure when this road trip turned from 'get the fuck out of dodge and lay low' to 'well, the crazy recuperating soviet assassin just admitted to killing your parents.' Not that either of those are particularly _good, _but he could have done without the latter. Really, he really could have.

Tony is sitting in the driver's seat, even though he doesn't need to, because he honestly does not think he can deal with social interactions at the moment. He's trying to reign in years and years of emotional deprivation, trying to keep the locks down on himself, but it's… Difficult. He sighs, dropping his head backwards to rest on the back of the chair.

He drapes his legs up on the dashboard, trying to lose himself in the motion of his bare toes, but he can't. It's impossible.

The idea… The outlandish idea that not only did his father not die in that car accident that left him alone at the age of seventeen, but was _murdered_ by _Barnes_… It's… Crushing. Sure, Tony didn't have a good relationship with his father, not one bit (_I'm busy, I'm busy, I'm busy), _but that doesn't mean he didn't _care_ for him. And his mother. His sweet, sweet mother who he actually had a good relationship with, sort of.

He chokes back the anger, the tears and buries it under a thick exterior of apathy.

"Music, Jarvis." It's said without the enthusiasm of the day before, but his lovely AI complies, sweet sixties tunes curling through the confined space of the RV.

'_I used to live in New York city, everything there was dark and dirty. Outside my window was a steeple with a clock that always said twelve-thirty.'_

He can hear Rogers and Barnes in the back of the RV, hear the mattress creak when they sit down on it and begin to talk- Mostly Rogers talking, really- but he doesn't care. Not until he can get a hold over himself. He pats the steering wheel and tells Jarvis to begin driving again, the vehicle lurching into motion suddenly and not very smooth;y; he can hear Barnes' panicked whimper before the assassin chokes it down.

Tony can remember his father telling him stories whenever he had time for him, stories about the War and the people in it. Rogers came up a lot, and it's one of the reasons he picks on the man so much now, but Barnes was mentioned several times, too. A full, smiling young man who kept Rogers together. A confident man who knew what he wanted and could light up a room with his presence. He doesn't think his father knew the man too well, but he knew Steve, and his father once confided in him, while tracing through pictures in albums and books and narratives, about how Barnes was the man that gave Steve his will to live.

And after Barnes fell from that train- his father had been one of the ones that said No, we cannot go looking for him, he's dead, and Tony's fairly sure he would feel guilty about that, now- Rogers fell apart. There was a reason why the plane was only a few weeks later, why, Tony thinks, Rogers was so willing to go down with that plane in the Arctic.

He sighs and drapes a hand around the steering wheel, even though it's not active, just to have something to do with himself. Howard Stark had respected Barnes and Barnes had killed him. Killed him because he was ordered to.

Tony spins around in his seat, fully prepared to lay one into the man, maybe to get up and punch him, knock him about a few times and _destroy_ him, but Barnes is… Well. It's not a pretty site. He's backed himself into the corner where the bed meets the walls, knees drawn up and hair hiding his face. His hands are shaking where they grasp at his knees, and he stiffens anytime Steve tries to come near him.

Stark lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and turns back around, leaving the two of them to it. Something is obviously jarring in Barnes' head, and he can't just ignore the fact that it was _orders _that made Barnes kill his parents. There was no autonomy involved, just blank, obedience at the hands of years of conditioning and torture. He can't blame Bucky Barnes, but he can blame HYDRA.

It's almost a relief. Relief that his father didn't kill himself and his mother from a drinking problem, but because they were seen as a threat to an evil, evil organization. That it wasn't his father's own misdeeds and problems, but that he was good. It's a bitter sort of comfort, one that makes bile rise in his throat again, but it's something. Anything better than blaming the first person he can.

Tony takes another few moments to collect himself, to put on a face- he doesn't want to frighten Barnes, really doesn't- and steps over to the foot of the bed, making his movements slow and loud. Steve looks at him with mild concern, pity and sympathy and a 'we'll talk about this later,' but Tony waves him off, slowly moving to sit on the bed beside Steve.

Barnes is still shaking and seems to be murmuring in Russian and German alike, but when Tony leans forward off his haunches to press light fingertips to the man's knees, he stiffens and freezes, snapping his head up to stare at Stark with fear and guilt awash in his filthy face. Jesus, the man needs to take to cleaning himself more often. Annnnd that is not appropriate for the conversation.

"It's okay." He murmurs, and James startles at his voice, haltingly shaking his head. Tony knows better than to make big grand speeches about brainwashing at the moment, knows better than to try to comfort with a lot of words, because when he has his own panic attacks, his own bouts of anxiety, the last thing he wants is words. He wants touch and the reminder that he's there, in the present. Though Barnes went through things that he could never imagine, there is a certain level of similarities, at least on the surface.

"I don't blame you." Tony says, locking eye contact with James for a moment before the other man ducks his head away, shying away from Tony's glances. He lets Tony's hand stay on his knee though. Steve looks like he's about to say something, but Stark jerks his head in a negative, not wanting the overly-large yet judgemental mind of the Captain to enter the equation.

"W-why? I killed them." Barnes shivers again, sucking in a bottom lip as he raises his red-rimmed eyes again. He makes a low whining noise deep in his throat and whispers, "I knew him. B-before."

"Yes." Tony replies, keeping it simple, sparse, just the minimum of what James is requesting without actually asking. "He said you kept Steve over here in check." James blinks over at Steve and seems to relax a fraction, some of the dazed confusion and guilt leaving his eyes and posture.

He sits with Barnes quietly for another five minutes, eventually shifting so both hands are on either knee, just enough contact to let him know that the present is real, and he's not going back to whatever hell he was imagining. Eventually James' breathing begins to calm down and stabilize, the jitters and jerks stopping altogether, and Tony lets Steve come in close to Barnes, sitting himself right next to the man and bumping shoulders with him. Tony moves as well, sitting on Barnes' other side so the three of them are mostly tangled at the legs in the corner, but it seems to help James, so he won't complain.

Jarvis still has the Mamas and Papas playing in the background, but it's muted and calm enough to leave on, just so that the RV isn't stiflingly quiet.

'_There is a rose in Spanish Harlem, a red rose up in Spanish Harlem. With eyes as black as coal, that look down in my soul and start a fire there and then I lose control; I have to beg your pardon...'_

After about fifteen minutes of just sitting and watching him calm down, James eventually blinking his way into a mask of content, the ex-assassin places a hand on both Steve's and Tony's knees, giving a twitch of his lips. "Thanks." He says, and god but his voice is wrecked, vulnerable.

And Tony knows how to play this one, better than Steve could ever. Where Steve goes the sensitive route and mutters a sweet 'you're welcome, James,' Tony just scoffs and bumps lightly into James and snips, "I'm not counting it as progress until you wash your damn hair."

Steve laughs but seems stricken that he did, but even James gives a small snort, and though he looks confused at the sound, it still makes him subconsciously relax a bit further into the mattress, dropping his legs from his chest to lay on Steve's and Tony's already outstretched ones.

**Steve**

**II.**

Of course, the entire scenario of them laying around on the bed reminds him intimately of his and Bucky's childhood, when the two of them would throw as many pillows and blankets as they could find and made a giant bed out of the mess on the living room floor. He feels the memory should be jarring and sorrowful in light of the shadows and jitters that the Bucky of now is giving off, but it's not. It's comfortable, if anything.

He says as much, slowly murmuring to Bucky all about their many adventures with the pillow forts and playing pretend, grinning when he recalls, "There was one summer that you really liked pirates and so we'd play pirates. You'd always wanna be some big strong folk that you gave a horrible British accent named Jack Booth." Steve gives Bucky a grin, and even Tony can't help but smiling at the memories.

James- Bucky, whatever- gives a few blinks before turning to look Steve in the eye, a furrow in his brow as he says hesitantly, "I… That sounds familiar." The furrow uncreases as a small smile dances on his lips, his hands twisting together as he thinks through it. "You played a French pirate names Jacques de Leon." The ex-assassin wrinkles his nose at the name but looks pleased, more pleased than he has ever looked so far, and Steve can't help but giving a chortle of a laugh and nodding energetically.

"Yeah! And then after some sort of snack- you had this thing with pickles and cheese, for some reason- we'd lay back on our pillow fort like a coupla punks and just talk." It was a routine, something lovely and long gone that Steve wishes he could go back to. If only for the innocence of the entire thing. Of him, staring at Bucky with rapt attention as the chatty boy rambled on about anything from the moon to dogs.

They continue chatting- mostly Steve giving memories and Tony interjecting with insults that somehow make things better- for the better half of the hour, and Steve can almost forget about the fact that not everything is okay anymore. That this is the calm before the proverbial storm. Because this morning's panic attack is probably just the start of whatever troubles Bucky will have.

_oooOOOooo_

Lunch is sandwitches from some local place in town and fizzy pop that is way too carbonated for Steve's tastes. He still eats and drinks like his life depends on it, super-serum metabolism being a bitch to deal with sometimes, and Tony eats like it's the first thing he's had in weeks. Which, isn't true per say, but Steve is aware that the mad genius forgets meals much, much to frequently.

James even manages to eat without prompting, scarfing down the sandwich as quickly as possible. To be honest, maybe Steve should prompt him to eat more often, considering they've only thought about it during meals and Bucky would never bring it up.

It turns out that James does _not_ like pop, at all. He glares at the Coke with a glare like he's offended, looking to Steve and Tony with something akin to betrayal in his gaze. "Do I have to drink that?" It's a good sign, really. Preference and questioning. Not to mention that glare is something straight out of the Bucky of before's repertoire, combination of intense judgement and a take-no-for-an-answer attitude.

"I think Freezer Burn here is going to shoot the Coke." Tony snorts around a frankly obscene amount of food, and Steve _doesn't _need to see that.

They're sitting outside, the light September breeze starting to carry the scent of briskness to it that's the the precursor to fall, but Steve doesn't think he'll mind the weather cooling down, taking it slow. October weather sound marvelous after sitting out in ninety degree days for a month. "You don't have to drink it if you don't want to, sheesh, B- James." Steve says after a while, leaning back in the lawn chair they've spread out. There's something close to _content_ curling in his stomach that he rather likes.

James looks over at first Tony and then Steve before glaring resolutely at his soda again, pushing the cup away from him with two metal fingers. "Shooting the beverage would be effort that does not need to be expended." He wrinkles his nose again before picking up the remaining part of his sandwich, taking an enthusiastic bite.

Not for the first time, Steve has a sick feeling about what his handlers let Bucky actually eat.

"Whoa, okay Bucky Bear, no pop for you, ever." Tony quips, stealing Bucky's cup in one fell swoop and cocking an eyebrow as he sipped it, muttering about how it was just normal fucking Coke, no need to go near societ murder-hungry on the thing.

When the three of them finish their food, they lay outside for a little while longer, staring at the fading sunlight of one of the last summer days of the year, and even Bucky looks content, relaxed. Tony goes off on a wild tangent about how happy he is that they got out of 'fucking Virginia, man, too many feds' and Steve is content to watch the landscape in front of them, a forest and a plain meeting together in a vibrant contrast of tan against green, the sunset's deep rays leaving strange glares on the entire scene. It felt right, and did well to ease the pain and confusion and anger that has been threatening to pool in his gut for days.

Honestly, if he were well and truly honest with himself, Steve were still riding a post-action adrenaline high. He'd left the hospital and immediately fallen into Bucky's circle of help, and that'd left him with nothing else to think about. If he were being critical, he would be taking more care to think through everything that had transpired just days ago (How, how could he possibly begin to look at anything that happened and not be suspicious he _missed _something), but… He couldn't. Not yet.

With Bucky sitting so close to him, looking more relaxed than he'd seen him since before World War fucking II (And wasn't that a trip, both of them _here_ in 2014), he couldn't bear to play up with his paranoia just yet. He felt safe here with Tony, Bucky and the AI Jarvis, with minimal contact to the outside world and a half-formed plan of 'travel.'

"Steve." im waltzing in a dream with you my love won't you make the dreams come true, love,

"Yeah?" Steve turns his head to look at Bucky pleasantly, inclining his head for the man to continue.

"Do… Do you remember listening to Bing Crosby on your mother's old phonograph?" James has a small, hesitant smile on his face as he looks over at Steve, brushing a bit of his hair out of his face. He cocks his head to the side, his eyes practically bleeding for confirmation. _Is it real Steve? Please tell me it is._

Steve hides his surprise fairly well, instead grinning widely and nodding enthusiatically. "Yeah, Buck. And it would always skip around on _Waltzing in a Dream? _Yeah, I remember. You tried to teach me to dance in the kitchen with that song, remember?"

("_C'mon, Stevie, it's really not that difficult." Bucky had said, pulling Steve flush against his body in a way that was probably supposed to look smooth, clean. For Steve, though, that meant stumbling across from where Bucky pulled him by the hand. trying to keep on his feet. Bucky, the jerk, just laughed and hummed in his ear, trying to get Steve to swing his hips, move with him._

"_I'm not so good at this, Buck." Steve murmured, but he didn't let go of Bucky. No, he stayed pressed against the taller man- man, now, man, because they were eighteen now, the both of them- relishing in how warm he was, how he warmed Steve down to his core and made him want to melt into Bucky forever._

"_Nonsense. You just gotta try a bit, bud." Bucky said, ducking his head to murmur the words of the song right into Steve's ear. "'I'm waltzing in a dream with you, my love… Won't you make my dreams come true, love...'" He laughed when Steve stumbled, spinning Steve enough that he kept his balance in Bucky's hands, going through a few tougher maneuvers before coming to a slow swaying gait that Steve could keep up with. "'Sides, it doesn't matter how good you are, s'long as you're just dancin' with me.")_

Bucky gives a wide smile, evidently pleased that he got something right, that the memory- something so good and light-hearted and _perfect- _wasn't fake, wasn't put there by people with other agendas in mind. That it was true, that he once _did _have something good to see, something wholeheartedly _good_ compared to the rest of his botched life.

"You boys want a portable record player? Get all those nice hearty scratches." Tony says conversationally, and Steve nearly has a heart attack when Bucky twists and nods enigmatically at Stark, smiling all the wider.

"The music… It helps me remember, I think. I remember that song, Steve." He relaxes further into his chair, and the three of them watch as the remaining light fades from the sky and the stars stars to appear in the inky blue of the night, freckles of the sky that's outshined by the moon. Steve, Bucky and Tony are all smiling brightly, and if Tony sets his hand on Bucky's knee to rest and Steve kicks up his legs onto Tony's lap, the three of them connected out here in the middle of nowhere, well. It's comforting.

Maybe driving in a strange little RV wouldn't be a bad thing, for any of them.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Other Songs Today:  
a href=" watch?v=1xa7NWRJjPQ"Twelve Thirty, Mamas and Papas/a  
a href=" watch?v=CIxXyJSqOXc"Spanish Harlem, Mamas and Papas/a  
a href=" watch?v=NpLGRyz10Ig"Waltzing in a Dream, 1932, Bing Crosby/a

This is the final part of Summer. The next chapter will be the introduction of Part 2, Autumn. Thank you all for reading and be sure to leave a review on how this is turning out!


	11. Autumn Part I

**Bucky**

**I.**

He's been sat in a large chair at least four times now, and each time leaves him feeling more and more disoriented, like it's ripping pieces of him away under the duress of electrical shocks that make every single nerve in his body alight in fire. Between each visit to the chair, there's either the mustached man who tries to teach him Russian (He tells him his name is Karpov as a reward for when he manages a halted sentence in the language), or a small Swiss man who introduces himself as Zola.

Zola likes to speak German to him, and he knows the language, though he doesn't know why, and tells him they knew each other, before the Americans left him to die. Tells him he tried to heal him once before, and then the Americans dragged him away from Zola and that's why he lost his arm.

There is no reason not to believe him.

He's beaten if he speaks English, or if he asks too many direct questions, though it's never by Karpov anymore and never by Zola. It's always by men in black uniforms with sharp laughs and sharper fists.

If he's not with Karpov or Zola, he's in a small concrete cell with no windows and a locked door and if he raises his voice too much, the men in black come in and kick him to the ground of the cell. The floor is smattered with blood stains, and he takes to tracing the patterns with a wild eye when he's not sleeping or trying to remember who he is.

They drag him out of the dank cell one morning and he goes willingly, pliantly, because they still have him on the drugs. He hasn't eaten in five days and he's fairly certain one of his ribs (maybe more) are broken. The men in uniforms are with weapons and he tries to concentrate on them, but he can't. He can't concentrate on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other, and sometimes he can't even do that and they have to drag him.

It's strange that he is led with weapons when he only has one arm. An arm whose bandage is fetid and clogged with blood and grime from five days of no care.

He's led to another room like the one he first woke up in and sat in a chair. The mind is a strange thing and continues to fade in and out like the tide, awareness sometimes flooding in with startling clarity and other times being as though he were just a ghost in this science fiction room.

Needles are stuck into his flesh and more drugs are pumped into his system (They curl deliciously around his spine and make it harder for the bursts of clarity to filter through the fog). His bandages are checked and replaced, and they try to speak to him in that language he does not know, and he wonders if he should.

None of them look familiar, but none of them spark any ill feelings, either, so he does not protest. He doesn't know if he can, anymore. The only time he is punished is when his mind clears and he sees another one of their needles coming down to his skin and he tries to shimmy away, shouting, "No! Please… No!"

He receives three slaps, four bruises and a kick for his efforts, and more drugs are pumped into his system. The hand that he still has is chained down to the cot, but he isn't planning on moving, not anymore. Not when his eye is swelling up and his brain and body feels sluggish, disconnected. Is this his body? He doesn't think he's ever felt so much pain.

(_Falling from a train and crashing onto the ground, arm wrenching out of his socket.)_

They pat his head and whisper croons in Russian that he doesn't know, and when he doesn't seem to understand, they whisper them in German. Still, when one of the lab-coated men asks haltingly, voice hesitant and accented, "_Du warst sehr brav für uns._" he nods, slowly, to show he comprehends.

He knows German, but it brings a shudder to his spine, even as they say the magical words of, "_Willst du etwas essen?_"

"_Ja, ja. Bitte, meine Herren, danke." _His voice is raw and scratched and painful, but they seem pleased and don't seem to want to slap him again, so he supposed it's alright. He just doesn't know. He stopped being embarrassed and pride-torn about begging and pleading after they made him strip one morning and he learned a new meaning to the word _pain_ (_боль), _and wouldn't give him new clothes for four days, leaving him shivering against the cold concrete to tend his wounds. He'd had to plead in Russian for a coat, for a blanket, anything, anything.

He's uncuffed from the bed and prodded into a standing position. Balance is still a bit wonky for him, and that makes him think that maybe the arm being gone is new. His legs and arm are shaky from lack of nutrients, but they push him along the hallway anyways. Really, he should be looking to memorize this place, memorize and catalogue to figure out how to get out, but he doesn't know… He doesn't know where he would go, doesn't know if he's supposed to be here or not.

The men behind him are laughing amicably in Russian and he wishes for a moment that he knew what they were talking about. He pauses, looking back at them, and their conversation stops, one of them growling roughly in cyrillic and prodding him with the butt of his gun. The soldier- that is what the mustached man called him, so he supposed it must be true- stumbles and continues forward, panic swelling in his breast.

He decides he doesn't like people near him. There's just not enough memory, enough lucid thought in his head to be able to differentiate between good and bad men and so to keep safe, he should just try not to let anyone near him.

The room he's led to is a large mess hall filled with more uniformed men, and he tries not to suck in a breath, tries not to still his motions (He can recognize some of them by their hands more than their faces). He's told to sit at one of the tables and shoved a plate of faintly suspicious food and lukewarm milk, and he should say his thanks, but he's too enraptured by a _meal_, food that he hasn't so much as seen in nearly a week.

_(Aw, Buck, where'd you get the dough for all this? We'll be eating like kings for a week!)_

_(Buck?)_

It's tasteless and bland and the milk is sour, but he doesn't care- it could be shit scooped on a plate for all he cares and he'd still eat it with vigor. He shudders slightly at the murmur of that voice in his ear, so familiar yet not. The soldiers guarding him don't say anything to him but talk amongst themselves, seemingly content to leave him to his own devices, so long as he stays with them.

He finishes before any of the other men do, and he's content to just sit there. Even though there's a low-level thrum of _discontent_ and _fear_, as there always is, it's better than having to stare at his own dried blood until his vision unfocuses. It's better to listen to the soldiers' hearty laughs and playful banter than their cold eyes and hard fists. If he concentrates, he can pick out words and phrases as they talk among themselves.

After he eats, he's led back down the hallway to his cell, presumably. One of the uniformed men kicks him down to the floor on the way back, because he looked back at the taller man and cocked his head curiously. He wants to retaliate, and there's instincts in him to swing around and sock the guy one (though he's never heard terminology like that, not with the Russians), but he is careful not to, careful not to make a ruckus for his bullies.

_I don't like bullies, _a voice whispers in his ear, blood rushing around his brain as the image of a small boy with blood-splattered hands, a split lip. Considering the state he looks now, the blond kid is practically healthy. Except for how frail he is.

The soldiers yell at him to get up, to keep moving, but he _can't, _not when he remembered something, not when a piece of his broken mind had fallen into place, trying to complete the puzzle.

He's manhandled upwards and turned right around, towards the technical room with the big chair that he hates. His head is still pumping with blood, heavy and thick as he tries to remember, to relive it, even as he's pushed down roughly- enough to bruise- into the chair.

The scientists ask him several questions in Russian and German and English alike, but the latter is a trick and any time he responds to it in that language he's slapped.

"What is your name?"

"I don't know."

"How did you get here?"

"I was saved by Karpov."

"How did you lose your arm?"

"The Americans-" But no, that's not right, because now the blond head is taller and he's not so frail and he's falling, falling from a train onto snow and-

And-

He's hyperventilating and the scientists are clucking their tongues disapprovingly, and that just makes his breath come out shallower because he's going to be _punished, _and-

"Soldier? Soldier, calm down. Soldier, _stop."_

But he doesn't, and they fear that he's remembered something, so electrical currents run through his brain and for the first time since he woke up with no arm, he feels grateful, because anything's better than remembering a man he doesn't know, the blankness and emptiness of his head is better than going against what the scientists and the men in uniform and Karpov and Zola want.

He usually struggles when they let him out, feral and wild and uncivilized like an animal as the effects of the chair mess with his mind, but this time, he lets them lead him back on shaky legs to his cell, and when they hit him with the butt of their gun, he just carries on as soon as they ask him to. He doesn't want them to harm him anymore, and he's too blank to put up a fuss. They take his shirt and shoes from him and look to see if he'll protest, but he doesn't have the energy. The men try to goad him about how cold the cell will be, because there's a large storm that's coming, and he realizes numbly that he'd forgotten about any bit of weather. Anything outside of this cell.

When he'd thrown in his cell, he forgets to try to remember, and just traces patterns in the old blood and the new that's currently leaking sluggishly from his body. No thoughts of blond or blue float through his head, and no phantom voices that whisper to him.

Even if he doesn't remember, doesn't want to remember, the concrete beneath his feet will always remember, will always carry the imprint of his beaten and broken body, and he clings to that, clings to the fact that he isn't just a dead man with red blood.

**II. **

"You okay, Buck?" Steve's head pops into the opening of the tent, blond hair pressed wetly to his head from the pouring rain outside. He smiles wide and bright, but Bucky knows how to read him like a label, can see the lines of stress and strain around the corners of his lips, the tension in the lines of his eyes. His hand curls around the thick green material of the door flap, obviously wanting to step in but not wanting to encroach on Bucky's territory.

It's been like this ever since Steve saved him, this cautious dance around him as though he's not sure what to do with him.

Bucky wants to punch him for it, wants to bury himself into Steve for it.

"I'm fine." He calls out anyways, lifting his head from the bed roll and blinking at Steve's figure, waiting a beat before gesturing for him to come in. Like hell he's going to let Steve catch a cold, super serum or no. "Just tired."

He's always tired, these days.

"You've been in here all day, man." Steve says as he walks into the tent, dripping like a wet dog all over the canvas floor. He's unshaven and dirty, and Bucky realizes he hasn't seen him in several days. That he's been lying around, sleeping or staring at the ceiling or trying not to panic for a full three days, ever since they pitched up camp here. There had been talk of flash-floods and various movements by the Nazis and HYDRA; the Howling Commandos decided to stay put for a few days and catch their breath.

There's a crack of lightning outside and Bucky jumps slightly. It was close enough that that the thunder, when it comes, very nearly shakes his little temporary hut. He sits up and peers at Steve for a moment before his gaze slides away. The captain seats himself heavily on a wooden stool, fiddling with his boots as he does.

"Shave your damn face." He tells the floor, trying for normalcy. Banter, that's what they do, and Bucky needs it, he does. His hands clench around one another under Steve's gaze, and damn, but he really actually likes the ginger scruff that's growing on his companion's face.

"Bucky…"

"No. Just stop. This ain't turning into no sapfest." Bucky clicks his head up and frowns at the look of absolute, brutal concern on Steve's face, can't help but running a hand through his hair self-consciously. It's getting longer; he'll have to cut it soon. He fucking hates long hair.

Steve sighs and stands, scratching at his collarbone. He's wearing his BDU's, but the shirt is a threadbare brown sweater that really makes him look quite ridiculous. Bucky has no idea where he got it, considering it's huge and baggy even on Steve, who can't even fit into Bucky's shirts anymore. "Just… Can you try to come eat with the rest of the men tonight? They managed to find a guitar and some more liquor. Just… C'mon. Socialize."

Bucky is silent for a moment. Maybe a moment too long because Steve sighs again and moves to the entrance of the tent, running his hands through his still-wet hair. Bucky realizes that he should have found a towel for him or something, but he feels so out of it. "Maybe. Okay." He says, and Steve nods, no expectation in his face. Okay is neutral. Maybe is neutral. He doesn't want to be pigeon-held in any decision.

Steve leaves, and Bucky lays back down. He isn't sleeping, hasn't slept for a while, really, but he does stare at the ceiling and tries not to think. Tries to be carefully blank to the near-point of sleeping. But he doesn't want to dream.

After a while, he hears the sound of the men getting a fire going outside- the rain must have stopped- and the sound of a guitar being strummed and folky tunes being sung. Half of him wants to go out there, do as Steve asked, but. But it's just too hard.

He lays awake the whole night, and when the rest of the men go to sleep, he goes outside and stokes the fire, sitting outside alone to his thoughts and the flame. He notices his thumb is bleeding from him chewing the nail too close, and he watches a few droplets leak slowly and fall into the dirt below his feet, washing away with the moisture from the rain earlier. As if the German forests haven't taken enough blood from him already.

* * *

___Du warst sehr brav für uns._: You've been very good/obedient for us.

_Willst du something Essen: Want to eat something?_

_Ja, ja, bitte, meine Herren, danke: Yes, yes, please, sirs, thank you._


	12. Autumn Part II

**Steve**

**I.**

They're in Tennessee at the end of September when they notice the leaves have started to change colours. The bright flushed green of summer is slowly being turned into the vibrant colour of death as the pigment doesn't wash away but _heightens_ into reds and yellows and purples. Tony dismisses it completely and Steve just takes a look at them and sighs, knowing winter is on its way. Even though he doesn't need to worry about cold, cold months and a too-frail body and _pneumonia_ anymore, it's become instinctual at this point. Instinctual to fear the biting cold and the paranoia that there isn't enough money. He has enough money now, but he's begun to fear the cold in an entirely different way, now.

Bucky, on the other hand, is fascinated by the scurrying of the animals and the changing season. He gives tight smiles when they're parked for the night and leaves crunch underfoot, and when he picks up a vibrant red maple leaf (Tony snickers behind him and mutters that the communists have spread to _nature_ now, capitalists be warned), there's a relaxation in his limbs that Steve hasn't seen since… Well. He's not sure.

"The longest I was ever awake for was twenty days in a row." He says while they're sitting around the table, each of them drinking tea. Tony had grumbled that he 'wasn't fucking British, where's the coffee,' but he seems to have grown fond of it, especially when Bucky makes it.

The statement is sudden and with no preface, like most of what Bucky says these days. There's days he doesn't talk at all, just nods or shakes his head, but even on the days he _does_ talk, most of it is only with prompting, as an answer to a question. So the suddenness of his voice is unexpected, but it isn't unwanted.

Steve and Tony blink at that, and Steve feels a pang in his heart at the information. Twenty days is the longest he had ever had to create new memories, before they were once away ripped from him, torn from his skull like an unwanted thread or button.

He's been away from a wipe for almost two months now, and that has to be a trip on Bucky's mind. It's no wonder whenever he changes the way he makes tea and Tony or Steve compliment him, his neutral expression breaks into a small, pleased smile. Why he seems to like watching the landmarks outside while they're driving, now that he can remember the landscape.

Since the mental breakdown last week in Virginia, Bucky has been doing better. Steve thinks its the little touches that both Tony and himself make sure to give him. Whenever James is looking a little dazed, a little too stiff, one of them will walk near him and press their hand to Bucky's shoulder, slap jovially at his hair and tease that he needs it cut. Press a hand between his shoulder blades or grasp his bicep. It seems to help him, for he'll relax, usually, afterwards.

He'd privately asked Tony about that, about the touches, and he said it might help to ground the ex-assassin, keep him present and understanding that they're not his handlers.

Steve isn't quite so sure that Bucky has grasped that last point, however. He will still immediately jump up to do something if the tone is anywhere near a command, and he seems loathe to do anything unless he is told or asked. But still. He's doing better. Talking more without prompting. Eating without too much fuss. He even asked Steve if he could take a shower the other day, before anyone had told him he needed to. Had picked up a book in curiosity without being told.

"What, so you've never seen the shitty leaves shrivel up and die?" Tony asks, his gestures animated to the point that he's at serious risk of spilling his sugar-laden tea all over the table and the men. He's obviously picked up where the train of thought came from, and Steve is grateful for it. Of the limited outbursts that Bucky says, he only understands where the thought has come from half the time. He thinks that some of them just float into his mess of a mind and latch on.

"I've been awake during the autumn." Bucky says, sipping on his tea with content for a moment, thinking. He's lately been pulling his hair back into a loose ponytail, and there was even a joke going around that Tony was going to go buy him a bunch of girly hairclips to complete the image. Bucky had just cocked his head and nodded, as if that made sense, and Tony had stalked off, annoyed that his jokes were almost completely obscure to the man who barely knew how to be human. "I've never been awake long enough to see the seasons change."

He looks outside and gives a tight smile, but that seems more for the benefit of Steve and Tony than an actual natural response. Bucky- James, whatever- does seem to be captivated by it though. It's weird, and Tony says as much, but Steve lets him have his solace.

If the punk wants to stare at leaves, then Steve'll leave him to it. It's the least he deserves.

It's been nearly two months since the events of D.C and Steve is still reeling about the fact that _Bucky _is _here. _Well. Sort of. And it's painful and horrible and amazing and wonderful and makes him want to laugh and cry all at once. But. He's coping. And this isn't about him, anyways. This, all of it, is about Bucky, and getting him to get over the trauma that has fallen onto him.

The fact that they're running from HYDRA cells just solidifies this fact. Maybe one day they'll turn around and fight back, but let them run after them for now. For now, they're going to go see America from a rich RV.

When Bucky and Steve were kids, teenagers, really in their apartment, they'd had a fund jar set up. For the first couple of months, it had been empty on the outside, with just a some loose change and a dollar or two. It was a joke, mostly, until Bucky had pranced downstairs one day and slapped on a slip of paper labelled "Stevie Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes' Fund for America.'

They'd planned on travelling the country, seeing everything that '_makes this damn country swanky, Stevie, just you wait. The Grand Canyon ain't seen nothing 'till she gets a look at us bastards.' _

Sure, it had never happened. Steve had always needed medical bills to be paid for, and food was scarce as could be. It was always better to buy a raggedy blanket than to throw a couple dollars in a fund to go sight-seeing. But it always did hang at the back of their minds, a sort of dream that they'd have the money to spend for that sort of superfluous thing.

If anything, Bucky's deserved the chance, now.

"Well, James, you can see every damn season change. And then move to Florida or California like the rest of us who just want one season." Tony says, jabbing his fork into the air with punctuation. If there's one thing that Steve's grateful to Bucky for the most, it's how he treats Bucky. Sure, when Bucky's in one of his moods, he's cautious, but for the most part, he treats him normally, like he would Steve.

"I like the seasonal changes." Bucky says, turning away from the window to give a head-tilt, hair falling out of his loosely tied-back hair and into his face a little. The way he says 'like' it as though it's something novel, something unexpected. Steve smiles to himself.

**II.**

"Is he remembering?"

Steve sighs and shakes his head, before realizing that Sam cannot, actually, see him when he's on the phone. "A little. Snippets here and there, but for the most part… No. I think he's trying to deal with the programming right now."

There's a little hum on the other line and a bit of silence before Sam begins to talk again. He can hear music in the background, but he wouldn't even begin to guess who it is. "It's out of my league, man. I'm used to dealing with 'I-can-still-function-in-the-real-world' vets." Sam sighs, and if he could see him, Steve would guess he's pinching the bridge of his nose. "Not. This. But if you want my completely off-the-record suggestion… Don't smother him."

"What'ya mean?"

"Don't treat him like he's a rabid animal, but don't treat him like everything's completely like it used to be, either."

"Tony does."

"Tony didn't know him before. He's talking to the Bucky- or James- of now. But I bet you talk to him and expect him to be like your Bucky."

"I… Okay." Steve closes his eyes from where he's leaned up against the metal exterior of the RV, scrubbing a hand down his jaw. He hasn't been shaving lately, and the scruff has turned into a pleasantly short-cropped ginger beard by now. Maybe he should shave. He supposes that Sam is right, as usual. As laid back and easygoing as hi friend is, he knows his shit. "Fuck, I just. It's hard."

"I know. It's harder for him, though. Don't coddle him. Don't disregard who he's become. Maybe… If he gets bad, give him a notebook. Something to write shit down."

"Thanks, Sam."

"Anytime, pal. By the way, you still owe me fifty bucks for our poker game."

Steve huffs out a surprised laugh, dropping his head back to thump against the RV. "I- I was half-high on morphine, Sam, you can't hold that against me."

"Hospital poker or no, Sam needs himself a nice bottle of wine. I'll fly out there and pick it up myself, if I need to."

Steve's not sure if he means _fly_ as in on a plane, or with wings. He's not sure which would be better. But he can still see the question where it's at, and he huffs out another chuckle, shaking his head. "What would I do without you Sam Wilson."

"You wouldn't."

"Point taken. Okay. We're still in the middle of nowhere. You can 'collect' your earnings wherever we end up."

"Better not be skimping out on me, Rogers. I will _hunt_ your ass down, Super Soldier or not."

**III.**

The Nightmares start in October. Well. Bucky's been having minor nightmares and personality displacements about twice a week, but, even barring the time he nearly killed Tony back in DC, they've been mild. Or maybe it's the fact that there's no door to separate them, anymore, separate them from his screaming and pleading or otherworldly stiffness.

The screaming starts at two in the morning and lingers until two-thirty. Steve is hesitant to wake him up, and even Tony is, afraid of who will wake up- Steve is more frightened of Bucky, his Bucky waking up and then disappearing again, than Tony's fear of the Winter Soldier. Steve can deal with a homicidal soviet killer. He's not sure he can deal with his best friend looking confused and frightened and then disappearing.

It's worse than either of those, though.

They've been alternating between the bed and couch, and tonight, Steve and Tony had squeezed onto the catch pull out, Bucky getting the bed. His screams filter through the RV, and Jarvis says, calmly, "Mister Barnes heart rate is above safe levels."

After making the decision to relinquish Bucky of his personal hell, Steve tries to stop the tangle of limbs from moving around so damn fast, tries to wake him. "Bucky! James, Buck, c'mon man, just a dream. You're with me now…" He pleads, and tries to ignore the tears on Bucky's face, the look of anguish and pain and the flinches from every one of his touches. At least he isn't mindlessly grabbing for throats, though. He's struggling, arms wrapped haphazardly around Seve's and struggling, but he's not trying to kill him.

Well. Steve would prefer it. Because as soon as Bucky wakes up from whatever nightmare he was having, his limbs still immediately, face going completely, utterly blank. He blinks open clouded blue eyes and they hold nothing. Not a single ounce of recognition or emotion, just blank and pliant.

"Bucky?" Steve asks, shifting so that he's not leaning over him but just straddling his hips, making sure he doesn't get up and bolt away.

Bucky slowly sits up, back against the wall, and stares into space for a few minutes, god a few agonizing minutes. Hair is hanging in a curtain over his face, drenched with sweat, and the shivers and jitters fade as quick as they came, panic gone in a second.

Behind him, Steve can hear Tony conversing with Jarvis about Bucky's heart rate and other matters, Tony unnaturally stiff in his words.

"Kakova moya missiya?"

_What is my mission?_

Steve jerks back to pay attention to Bucky in a second, and slowly, taking in the look on Bucky's face, climbs off his lap and settles cross-legged a few feet back on the bed. He's certain Bucky won't attack him, and after those words. Well. He's gone cold and numb from them, but he knows Bucky is pliant and won't do anything, _anything_, unless he's told to.

"Buck- No, there's no mission. You don't need missions." Steve says, and tries not to tremble. Tremble from sorrow and pain and absolute _torture_ that Bucky has been transformed into this being with no autonomy.

Bucky latches onto that sentence and furrows his brow a bit before settling his face into the neutral mask, apparently having to think through what Steve said. Maybe it's the sudden blink into English, or maybe it's the- "Kakova moya missiya , _pozhaluysta?_" His voice is so dull and vague until the last word, which is said with a force that Steve isn't expecting from this personality. _What is my mission, __Please._

And yes, he's going to consider them different entities within his friend's brain. It's easier than to reconcile the fact that this _is_ Bucky, now.

"There's no mission, you're safe, you're not with them…" Steve tries again, and he just knows his face looks like devastation.

That's when Bucky starts to shake, making a low noise in the back of his throat and scrambles to the corner, still blank but _terrified, desperate_ all at once. "Missiya, missiya, missiya, missiya…." He begins to whisper frantically, clawing at the sheets with his hands, and Steve doesn't know what to do, doesn't understand how to handle this, this is just… It's too much for him.

Bucky's eyes are wide and frantic, and he's moved from clawing at the sheets to his hair, breath too quick to be healthy.

"I- Stop, stop it!" Steve stays where he is, but nearly thrusts forward, intent to stop Bucky from tearing his goddamn hair out. The man immediately stops, hands falling to his side limply in complete obedience, and the low sound in his throat stops. Bucky- Or, maybe it's the Winter Soldier, he _doesn't _know- turns his dead gaze to Steve, awaiting further commands.

Steve stills. Sucks in a breath. Blows it out.

There are no thoughts of autumn leaves and perfect tea anymore. There's no tiny quirk of the lips to indicate that Bucky can feel amusement anymore. There's just wild, unkempt hair and dead eyes, a Soldier desperate for a mission, for purpose, because it's been beaten into him that he's nothing but the mission.

There's several direction he can go with here, and he doesn't know which one is best for his friend. For this man. If any of them will fuck him up worse, or if they all will or none.

Tony is still arguing with Jarvis, when Steve snaps back, "Get me a notebook and a pen." Bucky looks about to get up and do it, but Steve lays a hand on his chest and he stills, leaning back into the corner again. He's comatose enough now, respnding to orders only. It breaks Steve's heart, his soul.

A notebook is sat next to him as Tony comes back, the pen clicking the only sound in the damn RV. Steve picks it up gently and slowly hands it out towards Bucky, the pen trapped underneath his thumb. "Buck? I want you to write down what you like and dislike, please."

The 'please' doesn't disguise the fact that it's an order, plain and simple. Steve just hopes it's an order that will help Bucky come back to himself, any incarnation than _this _better. He swallows, heavy, when Bucky takes it immediately, his hands not shaking anymore.

He looks up at Steve again and seems confused, head tilting to the side. After a moment, he nods, and puts his pen to the paper obediently left hand making small whirs with every minute gesture and flick, the metal catching the light and making a glare every now and again.

**Bucky**

**IV.**

His handler tells him to write down what he likes and dislikes. He- He's confused. He doesn't know… He's not supposed to 'like' or 'dislike' anything. He is indifferent to such trivial matters. He is a weapon and weapons do not like or dislike.

The paper in front of him stays blank for a bit, because there is no directive, no files for him to draw back on. In fact, all he can recall is himself with _emotions_ and the handler in front of him and the other, the one with the black hair. His hand shakes as he tries to think _think_, even if he's not supposed to.

Weapons do not think, they do.

And yet.

And yet, there are things in his head that aren't just orders and missions and objectives, but _likes _and _dislikes_ and he finds his hand moving across the paper. Each swish of ink makes him feel content, because he is completing his orders.

He dislikes the cold and how it makes his arm stiffen. He dislikes being told his hair is too long. He dislikes wearing shoes and he dislikes how confining the shower can be.

[_You are NOT a weapon] _

He likes tea, and he likes the autumn chill because it's still warm enough that it doesn't remind him of his sleeping chamber. He likes blankets and hoodies because they make him feel warm and he very much likes The Beatles and The Mamas and Papas, even if he has no opinion on any other band past the 1940's. He likes Jarvis, and he likes when Steve or Tony touch him.

He pauses, because he is not made to like anything, but he is especially not made to like anything that relates to a person. And a moment ago, he did not know either of their names. The Soldier looks down at the paper and realizes that it's a mess of half-formed thoughts in Russian, English, German and any other language he was programmed to know. Some of the things listed trail off mid-thought. His head just spins and spins and sometimes he can't help but stop writing and move on to the next, afraid the newest thought-banner will disappear.

The Soldier looks down at it some more, and then writes, in the 'Like' column (for he is methodical, if nothing else, even if the content in his columns are half missing) 'Steve and Tony.'

The Winter Soldier is a weapon and does not like people. Does not have preference. Does not care either way what happens to him, so long as his handlers approve of it. The notebook paper written in three different handwritings is a testament against that fact.

He is not the Winter Soldier.

Blinking furiously, he notices absently that he's squeezed the pen too hard, that's it has broken and ink is spilling all over the clean white sheets, and he jumps, because the sluggish liquid in the half light looks like _bloodbloodblood_ and _did I do it? _He tries to shake himself out of it, looks over at the blond handler- _Stevestevesteve not a handler, not one of __**them- **_and freezes.

"It's okay, Buck." He says softly, reaching out a slow hand to cover his wrist, the other taking the leaking pen from his hand. "You're fine. You're here. No more missions."

No more missions. No more mission. He wants to shake and kill something. He wants to cry of joy. Mostly, he… He…

He doesn't need missions and…

"_Fuck." _Bucky hisses, stabbing the heel of his palm over his head, throwing the notebook away from him. "I…"

"Bucky?"

James-Bucky, whatever, he doesn't _care_ anymore- nods, slowly, his head pounding as the memories that he has regained pumping back into his brain as the programming recedes, vision swimming. He doesn't think he hurt anybody, can't see any damage made to the RV or to Steve or Tony, and he breathes out a sigh of relief.

It's also a relief that the homicidal programming seems to have faded, at least a little. He doesn't _want_ to hurt anybody, where he would have been indifferent, before.

Steve bundles up his notebook, splattered with black ink now over the words, and glances over it, brow furrowing as he tries to read over it, and Ja- Bucky, he likes Bucky now- grabs it from his hand roughly, even if the act of defiance sends a stab of fear, pain and panic through his head. Steve just nods and scrambles back a few feet, still looking at him, and Bucky hugs the notebook to his chest, breathing heavily for a moment.

"Can I…" He trails off, not wanting to _ask_, god forbid.

"Go on, it's fine, ask, Buck." Steve coaxes, and though it's, it's… _coddling_, it makes Bucky feel better.

"Can I keep this to myself? _Mine?_" He doesn't own things. Even when he makes tea, it's Tony's and the clothes are Tony's or Steve's and the hair bands and the food. He doesn't own things because he's not a person. But. He wants to be.

"Of course." Steve gives a reassuring smile, and Bucky relaxes slightly, sagging against the corner.

Tony wanders over when he's sure that Bucky's not going to knife everyone, and gives a dramatic sigh and groan at the sight of his poor sheets, ink-splattered and torn from his hand. "Goddamnit. 'M gonna have to buy you a set of pens and pencils now, aren't I."

Bucky would normally be admonished, scared at the failure and fucking up, but he sees the quirk to Tony's brow, the relief that Bucky is back to himself. He feels a surge of… _something_, and smiles, just a little, cocking his head to the side. There's that voice in the back of his head again, the one that sounds so much carefree than he is, and he lets it bubble up, voice sounding oddly snarky. "Wel,, Stark, after the piss-poor job at dinner yesterday, I s'pose you owe us."

Steve and Tony freeze for a moment, and Bucky wonders if he's done wrong, before the two of them are laughing, tension bleeding out of all their limbs, which in turn makes Bucky relax. Sure, he has only an inkling of what the fuck sort of joke he just made, just let it… _happen_, but it feels good, feels _right_, and so he allows it.

They don't make dinner that night, but instead make a huge bowl of popcorn and find boxed candy, and sit on the bed and watch movies for eight hours straight, only getting up from the makeshift mess of blankets and pillows and _limbs_, all sprawled out together, to piss or grab some more food.

Bucky's jumpy the rest of the night, afraid that the programming will take over and scare everyone once again, but the comedy they're watching- something called _The Princess Bride- _loosens some of his nerves, even if he doesn't understand most of the jokes. It just. Feels good. And he likes emotions, now. The entire way through the movie, he clutches his small notebook to his chest, like a safety blanket, the rough sides only uncomfortable in physical feeling, a mental relief in every other. It means he's _human_, his columns. And he needs it.


	13. Autumn Part III

**Bucky**

**I.**

They put a gun in his hand and tell him to shoot. There's a twinge in the back of his head that tells him to analyze the reasonings behind this, to look at what they're telling him and _think, damnit, don't just lie down and take orders like a fucking dog_, but he does not know what half of those words mean.

Perhaps those are the words that lay dried in brown and red pigments on the cell they keep him in. Or, perhaps those are the words that leave his head whenever he breaks away from what they tell him too, and sit condensed in the chair they like him to sit in, the one that hurts but feels good afterwards.

He must hesitate too long, because there's a bark of orders in Russian, and he feels his heart begin to beat too fast, his fingers to shake. He makes eight of the ten targets, but it's not good enough. He accidentally asks one of the handlers if he did good, if he can go rest (He's so terribly tired again), and he can't remember anything after that except pain and beatings and _they're good to me, I am nothing without Hydra._

He wakes in the cell with the bloodstains and no longer feels compelled to trace his fingers along the patterns, no longer feels the need to think for a memory. Hydra will tell him what he needs, for there is no him, no weapon, without Hydra. Instead, he sits in the corner and waits for his next order. His entire being, the what, when, why, how, who is up to them and he should be grateful for it.

(For a while, he was _too_ grateful. Whenever Karpov or Zola showed up, he would press into their sides like a dog wishing for a good scratch, close his eyes in happiness whenever they patted him in congratulations. He _liked_ them, for they saved him and made him better, made him what he needed to be.

They did not like that, and he was severely beaten for it. He had forgotten that it does not matter that he like someone, that preference is forbidden, cravings abhorred. He remembered soon enough, though, and did not care that his rib was broken, that he could see his ankle bone.)

He's taken from his cell after perhaps a day of nothingness, during which time he does not sleep for he was not ordered to. His limbs feel heavy and shaky, but he is no longer hesitant and he is functional. He just forgot his place, for a moment. Weapons do not talk back.

They tell him to shoot the gun at the target again, and he does. He does not feel pained, does not feel content or any emotion that a weapon does not feel. They told him he is to respond to no name other than The Asset or The Soldier. He is not really even a He, or any other gender identifier. Not by a definition case. The Asset is not human, is not anything that can function with an identity, is merely Hydra's vessel to do as they please.

He is not beaten this time, when he shoots the ten targets without looking for praise, or content, but merely shoots them, ten perfect targets. The scientists notice he is shaking, and conclude that the Asset needs nutrients. He would like to agree, if his agreement meant anything.

Solid white bread and thick chowder are given to him, and the technicians and scientists watch for his reaction. There is none save for the Asset to sit down on the floor and eat with brutal efficiency, as they taught him to. There's a voice in the back of his head that tells him this is a test and he is doing good; white bread is a treat and they want to see if he will get happy. He doesn't.

This schedule is repeated for quite some time, long enough that the Asset can almost _feel_ the fact that this is the longest he's been away from the chair since he first came here.

Eventually, the lack of sleep catches up to him and his limbs shake more and more and more, but he cannot do anything they do not tell him, and to sleep is to potentially miss more orders. He cannot miss his orders, or else he will disappoint Hydra and be put down for being broken.

After a day of shooting and he only gets five of the targets, they seem to realize he is not sleeping, and order him to. They do not specify how long, so he doesn't plan an internal clock, and falls into a needed slumber that is deep and dreamless. He doesn't realize that he has slept for sixteen hours, until he is woken up by batons and feets cracking at his limbs.

He does not move, but he slits his eyes open, gives a small, "Da," to signify he is awake, and lies there while the guards shuffle back out. The Soldier is stiff as a bored, still. He hardly dares to breathe.

The Asset is not to activate unless he is ordered to do so. To move on his own volition, with no orders, would suggest he has autonomy.

The Soldier is pulled aside again and one of the technicians place another gun in his hands, and this time, he is told to shoot a crying woman in the corner of a dark-lit room, the telling smell of mold and grime tickling his nose. It's not a target, but neither is she moving so it might as well be. His hands are still shaky, limbs hollow and numb, but it is not from some misplaced muscle memory that impedes his movement, but rather from exhaustion and malnourishment. Despite the regular meals, he is still recovering, and he was beaten that morning; the scientists gratefully take this into consideration.

"Nyet, nyet, pozhaluysta!" The woman screeches from her small niche in the corner, but it does nothing to the Asset. She is not Hydra, is not his handler or Zola or Karpov, and therefore her pleading means nothing to him. She is nothing but an order that must be taken care of as promptly as possible.

(Something in the back of his quickly emptying mind is squirming from both the memory of _his_ pleading and revulsion at his acceptance to just shoot, no asking if she is guilty of anything.)

He does not mock back, says nothing, just pulls back the hammer of the gun, levels the shot to a square killing shot, and pulls the trigger.

When they first told him to pick up a gun, before he knew fully who he belonged to, he wondered vaguely how he already knew how to shoot it, how half of the motions were of a muscle memory so sharp-tuned that he had to have shot guns before, in his mysterious past.

Now, he merely understands that his natural affinity with weapons just means he was born to be _Hydra's_ weapon, that his station in his functioning is secured and right.

The woman's brain splatter the wall behind her in a bright explosion of red and yellow light, and the Soldier watches coolly as she slumps to the ground, her cries suddenly quiet in a way that is sharp. He flicks the safety on the gun and turns to see if he performed to his handler's standards.

He is not reprimanded, but given food again. This time, there is a shriveled winter apple among the soup and bread that he eats with the same practiced mechanisms. (_Gee, Stevie, if I knew you were gunna eat all the damn apples, I woulda grabbed more. Sheesh, save me some of the green ones, huh?)._

The next day, he is told to shoot a child. Then an old man. Then a cripple. Then a mother and her baby. The Asset shoots every one of them with no hesitation, no emotion, no feelings.

It is during his tune-ups, the metal arm being fiddled with and the normal amount of drugs being pumped into his body, that he feels a twitch in the back of his head. The kid he was told to shoot had been blond. Blond and blue and skinny and frail and, "Did I know that child?" He asks. The scientist looks up sharply, and there's a ring of fear in his eyes. It's not one of his handlers, then.

He is ordered to stay still and he does, and after a few minutes, Zola squeezes into the room, small, pudgy body moving with a quick movement that for some reason, the Asset thinks is a bit off, for he remembers… Remembers skittish movements around a man with a cruel gaze and greed in his eyes. But that is unimportant. The Asset throws the information away.

"Why are you asking about a child, Soldier?" Zola asks, and it take a few moments for the Asset to realize it is in German. He has grown slightly rusty, has learned to speak and think only in Russian. Zola has been away for a while.

He would rather not answer, because he doesn't know, but a direct question requires an answer. The Asset resists the urge to whine low in his throat at the conflict of answers. "I don't. Know. Familiar." He grunts out. The Soldier knows that even in Russian, the language he knows best now, he has lost many words, many phrases and feelings for they were unimportant. Even with the small amount he just said, his throat hurts something fierce considering he says, at most, one or two words a day.

"The child was familiar? You have never met him. You are wrong." Zola replies, cocky and sure. There's always a gleam of satisfaction in his gaze, and the Soldier used to preen under it, used to feel special. He doesn't know why it's there anymore. It doesn't matter why it's there. It is not his place to question.

And yet, he asked an outright question and expected an answer. Perhaps the Asset is breaking. Zola is right, he is always right; how could he know that child?

But his traitorous heart is beating fast, his head a _thump_ of sudden thoughts that he normally does not carry. "Familiar." He grunts out again, like that is a good response, and Zola shakes his head, looking angry for a moment, and then viciously pleased.

"And yet you still carried out your orders and killed him…" The Swiss scientist murmurs, and the Asset believes he was not supposed to hear it, but his hearing has been enhanced by Hydra, just like everything else. The man paces around the room, and the Soldier realizes he is strapped to the chair. He does not remember this. Then again, his memory sizzles in and out like a wave, foamy mounds taking over his head before a wave.

Zola regards him for a few moments, then speaks low to a few technicians, and the Soldier knows he is not supposed to hear, so he does not. He is, as far as he knows, given a localized wipe, and when the pain and shaking and disorientation fades, he is asked about a boy with blue eyes and blond hair, and the Asset tries to think of what Zola means, but he cannot.

That night, he is not taken to his cell, but is instead put in a small pod. The Asset is confused at first, and, after tugging his hair behind his ears, reaches out to prod at the small window, but before he does so, there is an intense flash of _coldcoldcoldcold_ that pierces through his skull and freezes any left-over humanity and he loses consciousness.

He is never given the cell again, and the _coldcoldcold_ becomes a second home to him, one that he learns to long for, even if Weapons are not meant to long.

**II.**

Some days, words are difficult. His head felt thick and heavy with ice, and to penetrate the icy shards was to experience excruciating pain. He already has a limited vocabulary- after seventy years of being denied emotions, wants, Bucky has forgotten (like most things) the majority of those connections. But on the odd days where words are muddled and strange in his head, in his mouth, he can hardly string together a sentence.

The RV is rumbling down the road on one such day, and he's up before anyone else, trying to write in his small notebook. He likes it, he truly does, and on days like this, where he can't think of words, it helps to read over the things he's written on the days he _could, _to read the memories and snippets that he's managed to keep in his head, dutifully scrawled out.

Bucky slants his head towards Steve, who's sprawled out on the bed in the back, when the blond man blinks open his eyes and stretches, yawning widely. His hair is rumpled and sleep-worn, that lovely expression that accompanies a good night's rest filtering through his eyes. Bucky feels… Something, but the words don't come. He flips through his notebook with the metal hand to look for his list of 'Understood Emotional Responses' and still doesn't know.

"Mornin,' Buck." Steve yawns, giving a small little wave where he sits, an easy smile appearing on his face. He always does that around Bucky, like Bucky will break without his constant happiness. He knows that Steve _is_ happy that Bucky is with him, but he also knows that Steve is far sadder than he pretends to be.

The days when he can talk almost like a real human being, he's begun to say his relearned memories aloud, if just so Steve can have them. Well, no, that's not true. Bucky likes to tell himself that, but really, he wants the confirmation, needs the reality that what the mental slithers of ribbons are telling him is true, isn't just programming. Isn't just another lie that Hydra pumped into his bones.

But. This is not one of those days. He has a hard time even repeating Steve's "Morning," because repetitions are easy, even when he can't speak words, the tone even and flat because he can't even begin to try to put emotion into his words, inflection.

Steve stretches some, and Bucky finds himself watching, trying to remember the cool panes of muscle on Steve's arms. He can just barely. Most of the wartime memories are still locked away, the majority of his thoughts and feelings and remembrances locked in a time before any sort of war other than childhood play. Most of the words he'd relearned are from memories of his child self shouting them down the road, gleeful and innocent, wide-eyed and free.

Most of his memories are of a small, frail blond boy with fire in his eyes and summer in his heart, even when that summer makes him sweat and shake from sickness. Make his narrow shoulders vibrate and his tiny form to huddle on the bed. None of that is _this_ and it's unfamiliar and familiar and familiar at once.

Steve's hands, though, his hands are familiar, and long and… Something. He doesn't know the word. Bucky thinks he would like to draw Steve, but no, that doesn't sound right. He doesn't draw- didn't. Steve did (does? Who knows in this strange future), and Bucky socialized. At the barest of bones, at least, which is all he has.

"Whatcha writing?" Steve asks, slinking up from the bed and padding over to the table that Bucky's perched at, peering over his shoulder. He's been proud of Bucky, he knows, for how he's managed to not flinch when someone steps up behind him, provided he has a logical conclusion of who that person is.

Bucky glances down at the page covered in a slanting, curving scrawl, the type he knows that Steve recognizes. It's not the handwriting of the Soldier, nor of his own. The page has several old memories imprinted down, just in case he forgets. Stark called him paranoid yesterday when he went to write down a memory immediately after having peeled an orange, the scent throwing him for a loop.

He's not, actually, writing. There's a pen in his left hand, yes, but there are not enough words for writing today. He's _reading_, trying to open the floodgates of his frozen mind and bypass the frost in his language abilities. Bucky thinks on it for a while, before whispering, "Reading."

Steve looks over at him for a moment, assessing, lips twitching when Tony suddenly snores and rolls over on the couch, grumbling and mumbling under his breath. "Oh." The captain says, and there's a pang of- of sadness, that's the emotion. Bucky doesn't know why. "Whatcha reading, then?"

He's so overly casual with Bucky sometimes, and Bucky just doesn't _understand_. He knows enough now to know that he's not something to be 'casual' over. Not something to treat like a normal, rational human being, because any humanity was bled out of him on a dank cell and reforged with ice and metal to be a weapon, nothing more.

"Brooklyn." Bucky responds, tapping his pointer finger to the page and nodding, sharply, letting Steve see the quick-hand scrawl that the Bucky of old wrote in. Bucky can tell that Steve wants to ask, wants to _read_, but ever since he asked for the journal, about a week ago, it's been kept on his person in a way that both he and Tony know not to read, to touch. Growling at Tony and flinging a knife two inches to the left of his face when he almost snooped probably solidified this idea.

Steve nods, shortly, and steps over to the kitchen counter, scratching at his ass with another sleepy yawn. He stumbles on the way over, none of that grace in his limbs that Bucky has grown used to. Maybe it's the beard. Steve didn't have facial hair when he was graceful and fighting him on the helicarrier. Which is a ridiculous thought, even for him."Swanky. Hey- You wanna help make breakfast?" The RV, though being sort of small considering Tony's wealth, is still stocked to the brim with technology, and the small kitchen has a fully working stove and oven, a workable microwave and fridge. It's made the last couple of weeks much easier than dragging Bucky into public.

He nods and stands, closing the notebook quietly. They decide to make pancakes and waffles, and Bucky thinks it's a feast, in all honesty. Steve flings pancake batter at his nose, and he wrinkles his face in reply, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. Familiar. This is familiar, even if Steve is larger now. So. New York, then. It's always difficult dating his memories, and he doesn't even want to date the memories he has after the train fall.

"Brooklyn." He whispers again, and Steve looks at him, quizzically for a moment, cream batter running down the side of his face, before giving a big grin, evidently getting it.

"Yeah, we used to muster up a buncha food on Sundays and make a big breakfast. Big as we could. 'Course, then it was more like extra eggs, oatmeal and apples-"

"Apples?" Bucky can't help the smile. Apples tug on his head insistently, some muscle memory craving the fruit.

Steve looks pleased, and nods, going to the fridge and looking for the right fruit, then tossing a green apple in his direction. "Yeah. You, uh, loved 'em. Green especially. It was the only fruit we could afford."

Bucky listens and nods, shortly, then looks down at the green fruit and takes a large bite out of it, the sweet flesh exploding in his mouth in a barrage of emotions and memories. He lets out a giggle at how pleasant the whole thing is, which makes Steve laugh, too.

The whole kitchen seems lighter.

When Tony wakes up later, it's to the sound of Steve saying some sort of old joke, and Bucky sort of giving a half-chuckle in response. The RV smells of apple cinnamon pancakes and waffles, and both of his boys are covered in the batter that didn't make it in the pan.

**Tony**

**III. **

The damn kid hasn't put the notebook down. Honestly, it's ridiculous, much as Tony understands where it's coming from. And he'd be fine with it, really, he would, if he wouldn't stop stressing out and going full on Winter Soldier mode in the middle of his writing, causing the pen trapped in his metal hand to burst and splatter ink all over.

Bucky's been perpetually covered in ink for the past week, ever since he made his first rambling preference column. They're all damn lucky they have Tony on board, Tony who can look at his left hand and figure out how to get all the ink out of the kinks without disrupting the tech involved with the arm.

But so now Bucky is covered in ink _and _batter, and really, he has no idea how Rogers managed to do that. Judging by the mess of apples, two obviously cut up and three just completely obliterated by a human mouth, Tony's going to guess that the kid ate a shit-ton of apples and got some instant therapy. Or something. He's not that kind of doctor, even less so than Dr. Banner back in New York.

Kid's still quiet as hell, though, and it must be one of those days. Really, they're all lucky he's deemed himself stable enough to not lock himself in the bathroom with his journal. The journal that is currently lying abandoned at the kitchen table, opened to a random page. It has both Barnes' long scrawl, but now features a few hasty sketches that Tony bets more than anything is due to Steve's hand.

He shakes his head and lets himself get served breakfast, though he takes a moment to ignore the sweet-smelling foods to slip out his phone, humming to himself.

**Tony: {So I think I know Barnes' sexuality, sweet pea.}**

**Unlisted: {Again, I will slit your throat. And oh yeah? Whassit.}**

**Tony: {Apples and Rogers, evidently. All-American.}**

**Unlisted: {I'm honestly not surprised. Cap's a good kisser.}**

**Tony: {Ew, they haven't… Fondued yet, yknow.}**

**Unlisted: {Ha, fun for you in your tiny RV. shoulda taken me up on the safe-house offer.}**

**Tony: {Fuck off, Nat, I don't need this from you.}**

**Unlisted: {xoxo.}**

His phone is almost manhandled away from him when Barnes slides a plate of food in front of him, looking both eerily stern and hopeful, a combination that Tony is _sure_ is going to be written down in the stupid assassin's Emotions list. As private as he keeps it, Bucky spaces out so often that he leaves things around everywhere. Honestly, it'd be worrying if it weren't so endearing.

Tony shoves the pancake mess into his mouth and gives a pornographic noise at the sudden influx of cinnamon apple _heaven_ in his mouth, and almost splutters a laugh at how Bucky's cheeks burn red, looking both pleased and embarrassed and a little bit _too_ happy.

"Tony, can we _not_ try to scar Bucky when I got him to cook?" Steve scolds, thrusting the spatula menacingly in his direction as he does so. Bucky gives a small glare but steps near to Steve, grabbing the tips of Steve's goddamn ears, and if Tony didn't think this was the Twilight zone before, he does now.

Steve turns and sighs, but there's still a pleased expression on his face as he nods, slowly. Whatever's going on that Tony's missing, the two understand each other.

"So I shouldn't offer sexual favors in exchange for another pancake?" Tony jabs back, and this time, Bucky's cheeks light up again, but so do Steve's ears, the back of his neck flushing as well. Another pancake is all but thrown onto his plate and Bucky slaps him softly around the head.

At least he didn't bruise anything. That right there, is _progress._

**Steve**

**IV.**

**Unlisted: {So. Barbershop quartet, right?}**

**Steve: {Nat}**

**Unlisted: {'Similar experiences,' right?]**

**Steve: {If you fucking dare…}**

**Unlisted: {You'll what?}**

**Steve: {He's not in the right position for any of that.}**

**Unlisted: {But you're not against it, right. Good ol' sweet American justice.}**

**Steve: {Hi, hello, Steve Rogers here, not Captain America. I have actually had sex.}**

**Unlisted: {Hurry up before Tony gobbles him up. Horny bastard.}**

**Steve: {I think he has more sexual attraction to Bucky's cooking than anything.}**

**Unlisted: {...You boys need help. Let me know when your lame roadtrip is over, I'll see what I can do.}**

**Steve: {You got it. So? Still red?}**

**Unlisted: {I've been told I look excellent blonde, thank you.}**

**Steve: {Aw, you and Clint match now.}**

**Unlisted: {Fuck off, Rogers.}**


	14. Autumn Part IV

**Bucky**

**I. **

He picks up a replesent red leaf. It's from a maple tree and each of the points stand out perfectly. Nothing is missing, and it is absolutely gorgeous. Bucky should hate red and hate everything that is that color, but maybe that's why he likes this leaf.

Bucky picks up a stunning red leaf and places it in his notebook to keep forever.

It looks like a star.

It is a symbol, he thinks. A symbol that he can reclaim what should horrify him. A symbol because he should cringe from what reminds him so vividly of splattered blood and guts from his own hand (_an image of dried blood in a grey cell)_. A symbol because it reminds him of the star on his shoulder, the brand and ownership like cattle that his handlers placed upon him because they owned him. A symbol because they tore the ability for him to see the color in his thoughts for so long, bled away any vibrancy for seventy _fucking_ years.

He takes the leaf, and he dries it like a butterfly on collection because it is a _sign_ that he cannot be controlled by Hydra and handlers anymore. That the Russians can go fuck themselves because he _likes_ red, goddammit.

Bucky takes the _fucking_ leaf and he puts it in the page marked 'Potential Triggers,' a page written entirely in Russian and German, no English in sight. So that anytime he has to write down new ones, he can look at the leaf and both be comforted with the knowledge that he owns himself now, and the knowledge of who did this. Of who put this red in his head and his arm and his _veins. _

This is anger, pure and unadulterated, but it's a righteous sort of anger. He feels his fists clench in suppressed rage, feels his jaw click and the muscles bounce. He's felt anger, but it's always undirected, aimless and abstract. But this. This is the beginnings of revenge in his still-cloudy mind, the understandings that Hydra will _pay_.

It unlocks a cog in Bucky's mind, gives him something more of himself that he lost under ice and electricity and he spends half an hour staring down at the leaf and his triggers, just slowly going through his mental thoughts. And when he finishes staring, when he feels the rage subside into something low and primal, hidden away at the back of his head, he makes breakfast. Breakfast, because cooking calms him, calms him as he _creates_ something that makes everyone happy, that sustains everyone, instead of maiming and destroying.

When Steve and Tony wake up, Bucky merely points to the table he set up outside, where there are two plates stacked high with chocolate pancakes and an assortment of other breakfast foods. They don't comment on the vague, satisfied smile on his face, have learned to just let him say things when he wants to and not to push.

"What's with the leaves?" Tony asks around a mouthful of food, gesturing with a fork to the stacks of red, yellow, green and purple leaves that are also on the table.

"I wanted to find the perfect one." Bucky replies, and he smiles because it is evidently a good word day and his mind feels _clear. _"I like autumn. I wanted a leaf to commemorate that."

"That's… Good, I think." Steve says, smiling, and Bucky can't help the light chuckle that explodes from his mouth at the way Steve's cheeks chipmunk outwards. "You gonna eat, too?"

"Already did. I couldn't wait." Bucky hums, but he's not really paying attention to Steve or Tony at the moment, instead finding the page that Steve had doodled on, tracing a metal finger around the smooth lines and neat curves. He blinks down at them, then back up at Steve. Bucky has learned that he _likes_ food, and has chased that revelation back to white bread and thick chowder, has chased it to moments where they had bled even taste from his mouth with red torture. So he eats when he can, and _likes_ eating, because it's an explosion of flavour on his tongue and another reminder that he is _not_ theirs.

He's been growing restless lately, urging Tony to pull over so he can wander around for a while, and while Steve sometimes joins him- Tony never does- he's usually on his own as he walks for a mile or two (never far, never wanting to leave them too behind), thinking through his slowly filling mind before he comes back. Bucky can only be grateful that Steve and Tony, while maybe not understanding _why_ he gets so restless, understand that he needs to stop every now and again before he can continue down the American roads.

Bucky enjoys the freedom of just walking in a direction without any specific objective in mind, and he's gained enough of himself back that he realizes this is a good thing, this means that he doesn't _need_ the mission anymore. That he can want and that he's stepping closer and closer to human everytime.

He's noticed, even, that Steve's sad little glances have lessened lately, and Bucky is relieved. Maybe Steve has finally understood that he will never, ever be Barnes again, but is someone new that is slowly integrating the past memories to make himself _better._

**_oooOOOooo_**

He's dozing on the couch because as much as things are getting better, they're still not good and sleep is dangerous and dispersed to random hours. It's comfortable in the sun, and as he forces himself into consciousness, he feels another stab of a memory- because anytime he gets a memory all at once instead of a trickle, it _hurts_, Pre-War or not- and sits up slowly, yawning widely to cover up the instinctual flinch.

"Steve." He says, and if it's a little strained, Steve has learned by now not to say anything.

"Yeah?" Steve turns from his sketching, looking over at Bucky with soft eyes and a charcoal stained nose.

"Remember… When we went to the beach?" He doesn't have to specify, he doesn't think, because he's fairly certain it was the only time they ever went to the beach together. Of course, Bucky could be wrong and has been, but…

Steve smiles, and it's a beautiful thing, something that makes Bucky's stomach flip deep inside of him, something that makes him return the smile. "Yeah, I remember. I also remember I managed to dunk ya under the water." He winks and it's such a surreal moment of double exposure- he remembers this happening, _knows_ that Steve used to make movements like this, but he, Bucky, would always reciprocate somehow- that Bucky feels a flush travel up the back of his neck, even as some instinctual fear that the memory was _wrong_ subsides.

And something else stirs within him in that moment, in that moment of light teasing and the flirtatious wink, and Bucky Barnes fucking _grins_, shooting Steve a particularly withering look. "Oh, hell, I let ya dunk me. Only 'cause I was hot and needed to cool off."

And unlike last time Bucky Barnes stirred within him, it isn't _just_ some dissociative break. He knows, at the moment, that he is Bucky Barnes and James and the Soldier and any other identity, but it's just _easy_ for once, easy as the words bubble up and he pushes down his programming.

Steve, to his credit, doesn't just freeze in shock like the last time, either, but just smirks wider, tugging his lips with his teeth. "Aw, Buck, you know you were hot 'cause I was there bearin' my chest and all."

That same thing from before flutters deep within Bucky's belly and rises to his chest making his heart beat faster. He doesn't notice that he hasn't thought about how much of an Asset he is, a danger, since Steve started talking to him, which is a record in and of itself.

He can remember, quite perfectly, can _taste_ the salt from the ocean, smell the spray of the water. He can see the vivid colours in sharp relief, the blue blue sky and tan sands, the gorgeous eyes of Steve that were no match for the sky in any way. And he can _taste_ Steve's lips trailing down his neck, dainty features clasped onto him like an octopus in the evening sand, each man- boy, really, they were boys until they went off to war- so, so hot in ways that make Bucky gasp out loud, make his breath quicken not from panic but from _want. _

Bucky stands up slowly, silently, and walks over to the table where Steve is sitting at. He can see the way Steve swallows, slowly, watching Bucky with wide eyes, and it sends a tingle down his spine. He didn't even know things like this _existed_, didn't know he could feel this deeply, but the awakened memory- and it's still pulsing in his brain, the way limbs moved and _really_, sex on the beach isn't all that it's cracked out to be, because there is sand _everywhere_- is making his neurons fire off at severe synapses, his brain making connections that had eluded him since he was wiped. Idly, in the back of his mind, Bucky thinks that he has found plenty of emotions to write down in his chart.

Slowly, lithely, he climbs onto Steve's lap, because the man is _huge_ now, not tiny and fragile and sick, straddling his hips as he bends down low, cupping Steve's jaw.

Steve's breath hitches, and he chokes out, "Are you sure, Bu-" but it's choked down as Bucky presses his lips to Steve's, feeling the smooth flesh there, their breaths intermingling where they exhale. Steve is stiff for a moment and Bucky worries, until the blond relaxes, practically slumps where he sits and slowly, slowly but surely begins to reciprocate, pressing back against Bucky's lips and giving a short sound from the back of his throat.

This makes Bucky pause, unsure, before the voice in the back of his mind informs him that that sound is _hot_ not _threat_, and that _hey bud, maybe use a little tongue?_ Bucky decides that, yes, this is a good idea, and deepens the kiss, swiping his tongue over Steve's lower lip, and the captain's shiver is _delicious_, intoxicating and Bucky even makes a low little moan in response.

His mind informs him that this is a _kiss_, and he decides he rather likes kissing, with Steve. Bucky opens his eyes and slowly leans back to take in Steve's face, the other man's eyes fluttering open at the loss of contact. "Buck? Are you- Is it okay?"

Bucky narrows his eyes before there's a sudden influx of emotion swelling in his brain, his heart, his stomach, everything all at once from the utter _care_ and _concern_ that dances over Steve's face, and the past month all comes crashing down in a giant heap. It's not a panic, he doesn't think. Maybe it is. He doesn't _know._ "I like that." He murmurs, faintly, and then he leans forward again, but not to kiss Steve, but to press as much as his body against him as possible. Bucky notices, dimly, that he's shaking again.

The concern and care and pain and _love_ in Steve is overwhelming and Bucky buries his face into the crook of Steve's neck, and slowly, softly, he finally uncoils the neatly-wrapped box of emotions he's kept under wraps, lets himself cry against Steve in great heaving breaths and tears and snot. It's not attractive, or pretty, especially not after they were kissing (and he's still straddling Steve's thighs), but it's _necessary_, he thinks.

He's not crying because he hates everything, not even crying from strictly sadness. Bucky feels the tears fall and knows that he's crying because he found someone- two someones- who _care_ about him as a human and not a weapon, and he himself can _feel_ again, can feel strongly enough to want to cry, to want to kiss and do _more_. He can feel strongly enough to love, because he knows, in his brain and heart that Bucky Barnes used to love Steve, and that the newly born one does, too.


	15. Autumn Part V

**Steve**

**I.**

Bucky kissed him.

Steve honestly doesn't know how he should feel about that. Not because it's new- because it really, _really_ isn't, it's older than most people are- but because he doesn't know if it's what Bucky _wants_. He just can't take all of Bucky's actions at face value anymore.

Oh, don't get him wrong. He, Steve Grant Rogers, wants this. Of course he does. If there was one constant in his life before crashing into the Arctic, it was him and Bucky, together forever and fucking up the world if they were separated. He just wants to know that _Bucky_, the Bucky of now, wants this. Not because of some half-remembered dream that tells him he _should_ want it, but because he _does._

He's finding it rather difficult to think through any of that, though, considering the man in question long ago pushed Steve over at the kitchen table booth and is now making soft sleep whuffing sounds against his neck, body relaxed against his in a way he's not sure it's been in quite a long time. Of course, this inadvertently means that he's pinned and can't move, but he's not complaining. If anything, he's just glad that Bucky trusts him enough to fall asleep on him. Though, he could do without that metal appendage that is not only preventing him from moving, but is also fucking _freezing_ and digging into his side, to bite.

He could also do without the snot and tears that are dried onto his neck. Were Steve a weaker man, he would have cringed away from all that _fluid_ a while ago.

But as it is, he isn't, and he's happy to be Bucky's pillow if that means he gets some goddamned rest.

Steve isn't entirely sure why he started crying, but he realized about thirty seconds into the fit that it wasn't because of the kiss, thank god. And then for another thirty seconds, Steve felt kind of weirded out that he thought Bucky thought his kiss so bad he started crying. In fact, the whole thing can just be drawn up to be a disaster. Though, he eventually figured out that he wasn't crying from pain or anything else but just an overwhelming amount of emotions.

He looks down at the man and brushes some of his hair out of his face. Sure, he's been tying it back lately, but some wayward strands have fallen into his forehead. Once he's clear, Steve leans forwards and presses his lips to the bare skin, nothing more than a chaste press, but it's still a promise all the same.

Bucky blinks open his eyes and smiles sleepily, then presses further into Steve's warmth, nudging his forehead closer to his lips like a cat. In fact, the way he's sprawled out, Steve wouldn't be surprised if Hydra put some cat genes in him or something equally ridiculous.

"You okay?" Steve murmurs against his skin, voice low and quiet to keep Bucky from tensing.

Bucky nods his head, burrowing further into Steve's neck. "Yes. Warm."

"Okay." Steve chuckles to himself, a deep resounding thing deep in his chest and Bucky blinks open his eyes again, raising an eyebrow before promptly falling back asleep. What a friggin' cat.

The trust and affection bleeding into Bucky's gaze is enough to take Steve out for a few seconds, blinking dazedly. He supposes… He supposes as long as he asks Bucky if it's okay at every direction, then the man _wants_ it. Didn't just kiss him out of some obligation. He'll just take it slow.

He's smiling loopily down at Bucky when Tony walks in, who starts to go on some tirade about how Colorado should just start at Denver and to 'give that shitty Nebraska land back where it belongs' when Steve shushes him, raising his eyebrows. Tony looks over at the two of them and slowly a shit-eating smile appears on his face, something that curls at the edges like a fern and _really_, Steve should have expected this.

Tony takes in the appearance of both of them and gives a silent thumbs up, eyes shining. "So just a cuddle session or what?"

At Tony's voice, Bucky lifts up his head and blinks, slowly, twisting to look at the genius. "We kissed, too." He says seriously, that characteristically flat voice once again ruining everything. Tony cackles, rejoicing, then leans forward to bop Bucky on the nose with his index finger, causing the man to still and then just swipe at Tony.

"Well, hallelujah, I say. I've been trying for years. Though if it was the metal arm you were vying after, I could have just put on part of the suit." And without explaining himself, Tony grabs his phone from the counter and skips back outside, leaving Steve to blink after him in shock and surprise and extreme confusion.

"You haven't kissed Tony?" Bucky asks blearily, yawning widely into Steve's neck and wow, okay, bad breath. He'll have to instill stricter 'brush your teeth' rules. Which, not that he should have to give Bucky _rules_ and wow, where are these thoughts coming from?

More important things, here, Steve. He sighs, swiping at his brow. "N-no…"

"Oh." Bucky blinks, slowly sitting up and getting most of his weight off of Steve, which lets the latter sit up as well. Honestly, he wishes they had just laid down on the pull-out couch, because now his back is _killing_ him. "Well, do you want to?"

He's been very adamant about asking what people want, lately. Steve takes that as a positive, that Bucky is growing more aware of wants and needs, and the motivations behind everything. Instead of just letting things happen and responding, he's _asking_ and _deciding. _

Still. He'd rather not have to _decide_ to answer this question. It's a bit out of the left field. It doesn't make him _uncomfortable_, so much as flustered. "I… haven't thought about it. He's usually too much of an insufferable dick for me to even think about that sort of thing."

"Hm." Bucky hums noncommittally, shrugging. He shifts so that while he's sitting _next_ to Steve now instead of _on_, he can lay his head on Steve's shoulder, still yawning at random intervals. "Maybe you should. I think he wants you to."

Steve blinks, looking down at him. "Ya don't wanna kiss me again?" He can't hide his disappointment, really. Is Bucky trying to pawn him off to the only other guy around?

Bucky actually chuckled, leaning up to peck Steve on the cheek, blushing slightly. "Didn't say that. 'Course I wanna kiss you. Both of you are decidedly… Kissable."

The thought of kissing or doing _anything_ with both Tony _and_ Bucky is just. Wow. Steve had never thought of that. He didn't know what to do with the information that Bucky evidently liked both of them. Surprisingly, he didn't feel a stab of possessiveness, like he might have back in the 40's, when Buck was off chasing tail with the dames. Instead he feels… Humbled and sort of… Excited. He'll have to talk to Tony later about it.

About a lot of things, actually.

Where Bucky is concerned, Steve makes sure to check in with Tony all the time. Just in case he's clouded his judgement. But now, with all the fruitful remarks between Tony and _that_, well. Maybe Tony's a little biased, too.

Steve can't say he wouldn't mind that.


End file.
